Borrowed from the world
by tutb88
Summary: Non-powered, mystery AU with Charles as the actual Professor, who always has more questions than answers. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

.

.

.

There is an absolutely gorgeous huge owl perched on the thick tree branch outside. The bird stares, unflinchingly, into the room where two people are talking. Or, rather, one is talking, the other is mostly listening.

"Do you know what is on the line? Our reputation. Which is sullied as it is. And why? Whose fault is it?"

Charles allows himself a shrug as though he has no idea what is implied by not so subtle accusation.

"I believe this term was rich on disastrous accidents. It's difficult to blame anyone particular for a sequence of —"

Stryker peers at him across the table and Charles abruptly stops talking. He gets mildly alarmed seeing concentrated glee in Stryker's deep seated eyes.

Luxuriating in silence his office fell in, Stryker tugs at the corner of the paper, victoriously peeking out from underneath polished paper-press. He is savouring Charles' reaction, which, thankfully, isn't all about intense shock and bewilderment seeing that it has shrouded him since morning and hence has worn off. He regards a crude headline with a new level of interest. A picture of the missing girl depicts her grinning cheerfully at the camera. A campus building on a bright sunny day is in the background.

"I don't need another media scandal, Xavier," goes on Stryker. "Our community has been upholding a good name for ages. However, my predecessor had made some grave mistakes," he pressed his lips in an uneven tight line, like his words alone were not enough to express his blatant disfavour.

Charles shot a subtle look at the spot on the wall where the large photograph of the previous dean surrounded by department heads used to hang. It is gone now. Instead of it, there is the picture of Stryker shaking hands with some imposing grey-haired man, who Charles fails to place.

When Stryker pushes his chair back to stand up, the owl gets startled. It spreads its' hoary wings and soars up. The branch shakes and a couple of yellow leaves fall off. It will be bare in no time as autumn comes and goes very fast in this part of the country. The transition between seasons is disappointingly brief. He is not used to continental winters, thus he can't but wonder what it would be like, to experience real snowdrifts and blizzards.

"It seems I bored you," Stryker chops his words.

Charles briefly visualizes that that was what he intended to do — to put Charles' career on the chopping board and chop it to his heart's content.

"Not at all, sir, but thank you for your concern," Charles rises up too.

That was either a very correct or a very wrong word choice, because Stryker's face goes through a series of flickering expressions, none of them too pleasant.

Encouraged by the lack of verbal response Charles hastens to leave.

As he shuts heavy doors behind him and turns around, he is intercepted.

However, before concerned Jean can question him, he asks:

"I wonder have you got any owls living in the park? I've just seen an enormous one. Are they common in this area?"

"Owls? Well, I haven't seen any for ages, but, I guess there might be a few left."

"I see. Thank you."

Now, she seems confused rather than concerned. She grimaces slightly and in doing so bites on her lower lip. Charles bids her goodbye with a smile and leaves the small outer office quickly.

In this wing the working hours are almost over. He encounters no one as he walks along a row of closed doors. Twilight blurs the names on the door plates, but highlights the echo of his steps. Someone left a window on the staircase open and due to chill Charles subsequently realizes that he's left his overcoat in his office, which, of course, is not in the main campus building.

He starts down winding pathways covered by crunching leaves, to be swept away come morning.

On his way to his office and back, he catches sight of her face looking from the missing person posters, pinned to notice boards at all intersections.

That she could vanish like that, in the age of net surveillance and supermarkets aware of your future purchases, is very disturbing.

He continues nursing that thought even when he comes home.

After turning on the heater he starts roaming around his kitchen, looking through cupboards and jar-packed shelves, searching for sugar he knows he has definitely bought, and finally discovers it on the kitchen table. The familiar red-dotted tin is hiding right in the shadow thrown by the large fruit bowl. He stares at it, infinitely sure that he hadn't put it there. Hasn't it always been on the counter with other tins, where he could easily reach it? This question will be left unanswered, it seems.

When in his living room, he tugs the curtains together, shielding from intruding moonlight, and switches on the floor lamp. Charles lowers himself in an armchair, and puts the steaming tea cup on the coffee table, next to the book he was reading yesterday.

Carefully, he takes it, leans back and tugs at the tip of a book-mark, relishing at the dry, almost sensual feel of paper against his fingertips. His eyes search for a necessary paragraph, but he gets distracted by the slight disturbance in shadow pattern. He looks at the armchair on the opposite side of the coffee table and sees her looking back, always locking eyes with him. Unlike earlier, in class, she looks extremely pale and exhausted. She never smiles like she used to.

"I am so sorry," says Charles.

Words fall like marbles. Empty marbles that fail to roll and fail to break the dull static of his living room, which, albeit it happens rarely, makes Charles regret his decision to choose the house this remote.

She is blinking slowly, owlishly, as though she is on the verge of falling asleep, and she doesn't acknowledge his apology.

"Shall I read for you?"

And he starts reading out loud, whilst keeping his eyes on the book, turning page after page and the rest of the evening passes by like this.

.

.

.

Halfway through the night Charles wakes up and discovers that his dream was disturbed by tyres grinding against gravel outside, just on the drive way, if his ears aren't lying. He wishes he could go back to sleep, but his mind decides otherwise. This untimely waking feeds fuel to something akin to fight or flight response. It forces his heart to pump so fast that he feels a physical reaction — a rush of blood to his head. There is no chance that he can fall asleep again. Here it goes, then.

Propelled by morbid curiosity, which rises as soon as he fully comprehends what is going on, he clumsily gets out of bed and stumbles to the window. The moon reflects light right into his eyes. Even though the light is decent, he gets to see absolutely nothing but his peaceful, empty yard and a fraction of his neighbour's, fringed by evergreen shrub. The sound of car engine is dying and he sighs as he hears a swoosh made by garage doors on the other side of the semi. His bedroom window doesn't grant him a proper lookout angle in any case, so standing here and peering into darkness is just ridiculous and, perhaps, a tad creepy.

In his head, his reasoning to act like he does may be sound.

After all, it is quite unfair. If not for occasional random sounds he would suspect that he is currently living next door to a ghost, or, for all he knows, a family of ghosts.

By his rough estimation, it has been two weeks since they moved in. Of course, after this discovery Charles waited a proper amount of time before circling chest-high emerald shrub, a natural demarcation line, which runs from the house wall straight to the fence. Truth be told, he was a little confused by the absence of a well-trodden path joining two households. Backyards were separated by a brick wall and were out of question. As for the front he could definitely say that the grass seemed untouched and flower beds perfectly undisturbed. It prompted another question: how did the previous owners visit each other? So, he squeezed himself through the gap where the shrub meets the fence and walked to the door and knocked. And though it was well into Sunday afternoon no one responded. The red doors stayed unopened. The porch, almost identical to his, for his was just freshly painted, was swept clean and that was the only indication that someone was active in the other part of the house. On the ground floor, the curtains were stingily prohibiting anyone from peeking inside. Unfortunately, upper windows remained shaded as well.

Coming back to his senses, he grudgingly admits that if one of these days the fate has mercy and he sees them in person, it certainly won't be today.

The rest of the night he kills by mindlessly sorting through neglected mail and grading papers. The dawn is very slow to come and when it does there's no actual sunrise.

Morning haze appears so thick that Charles reconsiders driving and decides to take a bus to work. Whilst pocketing his keys, he gazes at his neighbour's door. It has recently become a habit of his.

The lamp on the lamp post, which also serves as a crutch for the shared letterbox, is sizzling as though an entire swarm of distressed bees have been caught in a snare. The feeble light is flashing on and off. When he looks up he notices that something dark is beating against the inside of the lamp, being ruthlessly caught in the cage made of glass. The tap of its wings grows stronger, then dies out, then grows intense again. Tap-tap-tap. And again. The creature is following the same pattern, in vain, until it exhausts itself. Something about that trapped moth makes Charles' skin crawl and his heart stutter. Behold the power of projection, he muses to himself and closes the gate.

.

.

.

While students filter through the doors of the lecture hall, Charles catches sight of Jean in the corridor. He doesn't recognise her at first, because she has done her hair high today and is wearing a blue knitted suit, and it strikes him how different she looks. Jean is hugging a thick folder and waiting until a human flow subsides.

"Afternoon, Professor," Jean finally gets in.

"Hello, Jean! How have you been?"

"Fine. Just fine," she says tonelessly. "I've been running back and forth since morning, imitating a flurry of activity, because our dean was in the productive mood. Are you absolutely sure that you don't need a secretary? An assistant?"

"Am I already entitled to have one? I think not. But I'll bear your offer in mind."

"I do hope that you will," she pulls an envelope out of the folder she is now holding it like a tray and thrusts it at him. "This is yours. I actually came to give you this."

"What's this?"

Charles takes the beige envelope and feels a hard contour of card inside.

"An invitation."

"Well, are you getting married or something? I must say this is some surprise," she gives him a sceptical look and then Charles catches up. "Ah. Of course. A Town Day?"

"Yeah. It is a big day here in Glirham," she explains, very helpful as usually. "And there used to be a huge staff party out of town every year, but since the change of, how I put it, administratorship, well, it is going to be some sort of an up-scale social function with lots of important people. I was even told to call the Mayor's office, ask for confirmation."

"Hm, things are done in a big way."

"Yeah, only like that from now on."

"Could you tell me more about it?" he asks, putting the strap of his laptop bag over the head.

They turn to leave, whilst a different crowd of students starts filling the seats. Some of them greet him, or, maybe Jean, because he can't recall seeing them in his class. Charles smiles back and nods, still secretly smitten with the amount of attention he gets. His teaching path was blessed with a smooth and easy start. However, to some extent, he knows the taste of anxiety and worries one can experience when subjected to greater than ever demands to teaching.

As they come out of the archway and pass the fountain representing the Founding Father, Jean stops reciting the guest list and adding helpful commentaries. She whips her head to the left and Charles mirrors her gesture.

"I thought they had already left."

She is referring to detectives. So it happened that Charles had already had the dubious pleasure of meeting them both tree days ago and the conversation tactics of the younger, the fair-haired one, left a lot to be desired. The two of them have paused on the other side of the fountain, talking.

"Poor girl," Jean sighs, sad, and then gazes at Charles sheepishly. "Is it just like you told the press, Professor? You suppose she's already dead?"

"Believe it or not, but those were not my exact words. That lady took too much liberty with paraphrasing," Charles detects a slight chill on the back of his neck, as though he is being stared at. "Excuse me, but I have to go catch the bus if I don't want to miss my appointment."

"Let me see you to the bus stop. I was going to fetch him a coffee anyway."

Jean, he has to hand it to her, has mastered the paradox art of being productively inquisitive without being overly intrusive. She darts a curious glance at him, which is a transparent veil over her plain desire to ask a question. She is brimming with it like a wire strung tight, but struggles with rigid propriety rules. Jean doesn't feel like a person to step over that invisible line, and when Charles gives in he doesn't do that because he feels pressured.

"They are offering me a part-time position at the Grey Yard."

"Um, those psych wards?"

"The modern approach they utilise at the hospital appeals to me. Not to mention the fact that I need to practice."

"The modern approach, you say."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, we… we're almost at the gates, Professor. Could you please tell me about the article?"

"She left a note."

"Right, everyone knows it. But the unfinished note is hardly a big deal. It was kind of old. And, technically, she didn't leave it, did she? Well, police dug it out of trash."

"That's precisely what I've been thinking. Given that the local paper provides such marvellous apt description of any findings, I strongly suspect that their ties with the police are fairly tight. And in case everything they write is legit, there is more to that torn piece of paper than meets the eye."

"As in — what isn't said is the real story?"

"Correct."

And because history likes to repeat itself, now Charles is reaping the fruits of his ill-considered words. As usual the top problem in his life is to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.

Jean frowns thoughtfully and lowers her eyes down, obviously thinking hard.

"You know," she offers quietly, "I may sound crazy, but why don't you go to police. Not that this is any of my business, but it seems you can certainly help."

.

.

.

For five blissful minutes Charles lost himself to the pleasure of a nice, sweet cup of tea with lemon. It would have been a lovely moment to enjoy and to savour.

She narrows her eyes, but doesn't say anything. Tonight she seems neither melancholic nor tired, but upset and impatient. Her dark hair is loosely done, accentuating her almost translucent, fair skin.

The way she starts drumming the tips of her black manicured nails against the table is very telling.

Okay, then.

Charles leans back slightly and lays his hands flat on the table.

"Who else is involved? Everyone needs a push. How did they make you feel? What exactly did you feel?"

Forgoing tea, Charles gets up and strides to his living room, where his laptop is charging.

"Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, thus unlamented let me die…" he murmurs under his breath to the empty room.

The screen comes back to life and his fingers hover over the keyboard for a split second, while he collects his thoughts. An eighteen-year old. She is most likely on every social network there is, utterly and completely exposed to the world; everything laid bare for those who wish to see.

Google search provides him with a link to Facebook page, Twitter and Instagram, and something else he never ever heard about. Charles clicks on Facebook link and immediately recognises the photo from yesterday's paper. So, that's where it came from. He thinks back to her first picture in the paper, which was obviously taken from the student record, submitted as recently as a couple of months ago, and it didn't do her any justice. It was lifeless and dim.

He scrolls through her feed and discovers lots of musical videos there. He chooses to click on one, at random, and the intro pierces his eardrums with shrill acid sound. Recoiling a bit from united despair of unknown number of guitars and a synthesiser dying together and wailing in agony, he adjusts the volume and lets it play in the background.

Then, he takes a deep breath and clicks on the first photo album on the left that catches his eye. His gaze roams over dozens upon dozens of group pictures, excessive selfies, landscape shots of debatable beauty and supposedly smart quotes. Slightly overwhelmed by brute force of social exhibitionism, Charles briefly closes his eyes. Chaos is the first word he might use to put a name to it. Only an hour of thoughtful reading and sorting through it all later, a definite pattern starts to form in his head. Her life looks less like a web of intertangled threads but more like a web of strategically multi-coloured threads woven together.

One more hour passes. He has almost got used to her eclectic taste in music and he discovered plenty of information: starting from her hobbies, cycling and dancing, and a favourite colour, yellow, to the fact that she, for instance, used to part time as a waitress in a place called "Sparkle", liked Italian food and considered herself a friendly person and an extravert. In front of Charles' eyes there slowly emerges a portrait of an upbeat, young woman barely treading into adulthood, but harbouring high expectations, a feature common among Millennials. Nonetheless, some maladaptive personality traits shine through her cheery façade. Like, for example, worrying signs of body dimorphic disorder. Things like that are never mentioned in a newspaper. After everything he learnt he wonders whether she has ever seen a therapist. What about a local welfare agency? What was her relationship with her parents? Tense and, probably, abusive would be his guess.

"Now I have more questions than I'll ever get answers," he mutters as he puts his laptop into sleep mode.

.

.

.

You can't but fall in love with Glirham university campus in all its woodland beauty. Charles did. At first sight. The central and the oldest campus building, dating back to the beginning of the nineteenth century, is a token of impeccable architecture and artistic taste. Fringed by fine park lands, aged brick columns stand on the outskirts of town like a natural sanctuary, a reminder of times when higher education was a sure ticket to better life for a chosen few and a privilege entitled to those who seldom appreciated it.

Speaking of which. Namely, speaking of appreciation. Postgraduates keep testing his limits. Apparently, his liberal approach has failed and he needs to think of something new.

Immersed in these thoughts, Charles is walking to the parking lot and frisking his coat simultaneously, going from inner to outer pockets, looking for his car keys.

The grey sky is quickly turning dark-grey, whilst evening is sneaking up closer and closer.

Lamp posts are lighting up, illuminating his way. Those are his house keys — he identifies upon touching the brain-shaped trinket. Whose present was it? A silly thing, but nevertheless he's got attached to it. Weird. They are certainly not in his bag. Where else?

Finally, he stops near his car door and decides to check his inner pocket again. Here they are, snuck under the backing. When he is about to put a key in the door his phone beeps and at the same time somebody grabs his elbow. Charles almost jumps out of his skin.

Turning around fast, he drops his keys and his phone slides out of his loosened grip too.

He didn't immediately recognise the detective from earlier, who has just demonstrated a wonderful dexterity, swiftly bending and catching his phone in mid-air. Keys were not so lucky.

"I am sorry," Lehnsherr said, without an ounce of apology in his voice. "I didn't want to frighten you."

"It surely seemed like you did," observes Charles somewhat breathlessly.

His mouth feels dry and he swallows a lump, willing his pulse to slow down.

"I called your name several times, but you didn't respond. I figured you were talking on the phone. Heard some mumbling. Here you are."

Charles takes his phone back and looks down at the ground. He can't see his keys, which means that they most likely went under the car.

"Will you please hold this for me?" he doesn't really wait for an affirmative nod as he simply passes his bag to Lehnsherr and kneels on the ground, thankful for absence of rain and thus puddles.

Using his phone as torchlight, he quickly locates his keys and grabs the chain, pulling them closer.

"Do you need help, Professor?" asks Lehnsherr sarcastically from above.

"You could have been less blunt from the start," blurts Charles, straightening up carefully, "but that is impossible, so, no, I don't need any help."

"Let's get straight to the point then," announces Lehnsherr.

The man has his commanding, emotionally disembodied tone honed down. To Lehnsherr's credit, he is charismatic enough to pull that off. Had Charles been someone else, he would feel an immediate urge to snap to attention.

"Hm, I wonder how it works on suspects… I've already told you everything I could recall. Miss Lee has only recently enrolled on my course. Therefore I didn't have a chance to get to know her better."

"But you knew her good enough to point out that she is already dead."

"That was a misunderstanding."

"Mispronouncing someone's name can be called misunderstanding. Presuming that someone's dead is something else."

"Thank you for sparing your time and telling me this," says Charles calmly and takes his bag.

"You're welcome," responds Lehnsherr silkily, suddenly shifting uncomfortably close and preventing him from opening the door. He made Charles wrong-footed on purpose, violating his private space, so that Charles' bag, he unconsciously raised up, was the only barrier separating them. And it was not big enough. Charles didn't expect this evening to end with a sharp imprint of the other man's aftershave invading his senses and a car handle digging in his lower back.

"I say, how about you refrain from commenting on my investigation from now on? Or otherwise meddling in police affairs?"

"Harassing me is not necessary. I have no intention to prolong our acquaintance, detective, trust my word," slowly gets out Charles.

Rattled as he is, he prefers to stay still with his back pressed to his car door until Lehnsherr is gone from his sight. There goes one more negative experience to be recorded in long-term memory and to be avoided thereafter. This negative experience has a face.

.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

.

.

The following morning Charles wakes up earlier with intention to go running, which is a bit unusual for him, but the need to stress out his body and thus placate his mind is stronger than morning sleepiness.

He runs until his throat feels iron-hot and constricting from the inside. Runs past a line of small and old cottages, featuring red roofs and tall chimneys, and turns to the park. At daybreak sky is still grey and pregnant with heavy clouds. It is going to rain in the afternoon according to forecast. Lightheaded, he stops to catch a breath and wipes his sweaty forehead with his sweatshirt sleeve. He puts his hands just above his knees and bends down, heaving. Cruel cold immediately gets to him, since air seems to carry a promise of chilly wetness. After giving himself no more than two minutes of rest he starts moving again.

Whilst running down the meandered path between shedding trees, Charles has a perpetual sense of being far out and alone. The feeling which, by no means, is induced by oppressive stillness. Yet, exhaustion works its brilliant magic and by the time he is done with a shower he feels like himself again.

Time has whizzed by like a speeding train.

In a blink, his last lecture of the day is coming to end, and although these children are fresh from school and they used to be oh so immature, he notes that at present there is something curious about them. There are about forty of them, which is a very good attendance marker as far as he should be concerned. It's not what nags at him. As he comments on the next slide a thought springs to mind. What is different? And the answer is — the entire auditorium appears to be in a state of constant anticipation: a classic pack of humans displaying their groupbehaviourin crises of various severity. Never before had her class watched him with such bright feverish eyes and rapt attention. They are opportunists today, he thinks suddenly, in weird detachment. They test their prey, sensing any weakness or vulnerability through visual cues and even through hearing. And though the metaphor he has just involuntary used is unsettling, it's quite apt. He is indeed longing for an echo of bell.

"Any questions?" he asks routinely, wrapping up a presentation.

"Are you sure about Jubilee, Professor?"

"What did you mean when you said "police might be looking in the wrong direction"?

"Have you ever done criminal profiling?"

"What made you say that?"

Charles calms the chorus of voices by raising both hands palms up, as though directing a wayward orchestra, which he is doing, in a way.

"Are you sure you are in the right room, because Extended Journalism course is elsewhere."

He gets a couple of nervous laughs in response to that and considers that a success.

"I'm afraid, I can't answer," he says calmly and honestly, not entirely sure that they would be able to understand that in today's world of liberty too much of it can do you a bad favour.

Expectedly, his words are met with a low hum of disapproval, which he stops with a curt gesture, perfectly accompanied by the full and resonant sound of the bell.

When he comes inside his office to collect his things, the rain is already pelting against glass hard. It immediately gets darker to the point that he has to flip a switch. Charles spares a look at the clock. It's a quarter past four and he's got a counselling session at five.

It is not on the coat hanger. No, not again.

Gently rubbing his temples, Charles fights the creeping fog of exhaustion.

His gaze travels over the layout, while he urges his mind to come up with a recollection where he put his umbrella. If anything, he should have moved the furniture from the start, because current accessibility is poor, indeed. The side of his desk is too close to the window and a spare chair always gets in his way when he tries to water a scraggy corner plant he inherited together with the desk.

Harbouring a fraction of hope, Charles checks the gap between an imposing old wardrobe with leaded glass door and a newer looking filing cabinet, but comes back empty-handed. He couldn't have put it in one of the drawers, it just wouldn't fit, he reasons. It is not on the shelves either. Those are full of identical blue folders, so his umbrella would be easy to spot. He lowers his eyes down, on the faded carpet. Rain doesn't show any signs of stopping, so if he attempts a run to the car park, he'll get soaked in an instant. He finally discovers it leaning on the filing cabinet from the side facing the window. When he picks it up, he also tugs at the corner of some thin file, snugly stuck in the tiny breach between the back of the filing cabinet and the wall.

There's a name scribbled on top of it. It is a tad dusty, unfamiliar, so Charles presumes that it has belonged to whoever occupied this office before him.

Aware of running late, he leaves in a hurry and accidentally stuffs that yellow folder in the bag with his own papers.

.

.

.  
.

Charles noticed a car on the roadside after he had already passed it.

It has orange lights at the front and at the back, flashing on and off repeatedly, and if not for them, the curtain of darkness and drizzle would completely conceal it from the eyes of the world. His car skidded to a stop, a bit too hard, and he lurched in his seat and so did his bag, for it didn't have the advantage of wearing a seatbelt. Back in the hospital, he was told that this road is not used often, so it'd be unfair to leave whoever they are alone, at this hour, and in this dreary weather, somewhere in the backwoods of Glirham.

Sighing, he darts a glance in the rear view mirror. Someone is coming, so he leans over and opens the passenger door and comes face to face with very wet and very ghostly Lehnsherr.

"What a surprise!" Charles calls out of sheer reflex.

"Indeed," parries Lehnsherr immediately, though the scratchiness sucks sarcasm out of his voice.

Nasty chill from the open door is edging inside and Charles cringes sympathetically. Life has its funny ways.

"Sorry, I could —"

"Can you —"

As though synchronized, they start talking simultaneously and stop at the same time.

"Well," probes Charles cautiously, "would you like me to give you a lift?"

"Yeah, thanks. That bloody wrecker is stuck god knows where," nods Lehnsherr sharply. "Wait a minute."

With this he shuts the door and Charles watches him striding back to his car and knocking against the glass, so that the person inside can roll down the window and pass something to him.

Soon, Lehnsherr is back. As he makes himself comfortable in the front seat, his black raincoat is producing teeny squelchy noises, coming in contact with upholstery.

"Didn't you, by chance, abandon anyone in the car?" Charles wonders aloud, starting the engine.

"Of course," admitted Lehnsherr hoarsely as he pulled out his phone and pressed it to his ear. "I can't leave my car in the middle of nowhere unattended. Obviously. Listen, you'll have to wait for me. Gonna be late. No, not sure. No, I couldn't have left the keys. You know why."

The phone conversation is brief. As Charles is eavesdropping out of his volition he realises that Lehnsherr has trouble speaking: his voice is strained, as if he's got something stuck in his throat. After he finishes speaking he tucks his phone back and stifles a cough.

"Detective, could you please reach back and grab my bag? I've got a flask there."

"A flask?" his expression darted from confusion to comprehension rather fast.

"Yes, some hot tea will do you no harm," says Charles in a tone that allows no room for alternative interpretation and which he uses to softly subdue the impediment youngsters.

In all honesty, the reaction is more malleable than anticipated from the man of Lehnsherr's disposition. He simply takes the flask and takes a long draught of tea.

"Where shall I take you, by the way?"

"Anywhere habitable."

"If you have any peculiar destination in mind, I'd be glad to help."

"Drop me by the railway station, then," grunts Lehnsherr, clearing his throat. It doesn't seem like he can articulate anything else at this point, and though Charles is longing to ask some questions, just resting on the tip of his tongue, he opts to stay silent.

When their quiet journey ends a block away from the railway station, Charles turns to see Lehnsherr's eyes fixed on him.

"Thank you. I'll be seeing you," he gives Charles a meaningful nod before leaving.

The slam of the car door jerks Charles back to reality. He watches Lehnsherr turn around the corner and tightens his grip on the wheel. He appears to have lost a sense of time while driving. He also didn't say good bye, did he?

"I should have asked," he says softly. "Time is running out. No. Not good analogy… can't even penetrate the boundaries of the subject. The absence…"

Here was the coincidence thrown into his face, the one he wasted in vain.

.

.

.

Having made a considerable detour he stops the car opposite a new, partially lit block of flats and gets out. He finds himself looking up at mute windows. She used to live here, somewhere inside this mass of concrete and steel. One autumn evening, about a week ago, she left the flat she's recently moved into with her parents to never come back.

Charles crosses the street and stands with his back to the entrance. What he sees directly in front of him is an older, shabbier building of local school. To the right, almost on the intersection, there is a bright convenience store, standing out like a bad tumor on the background of towering high-rises. He feels gusty wind in his hair and breathes in sogginess. Alone on the street, except for an occasional car swooshing by, Charles keeps wondering, and not for the first time, where everyone is. No dog-walkers, no late passer-byes. In this town, the streets get empty quite early, in spite of large student population.

He hears indistinct, phantom footsteps behind him — someone running down the stairs. This someone looks slim and petite even in a shapeless hoodie. They carry nothing but a small backpack and their steps are very light: where the feet contact the ground the soles of good sport shoes make just a tiny bit of grit. It's her. She seems to be in a hurry and to compensate for that she takes large steps, striding down the void-like street, sliding past lamp posts and finally turning at the corner opposite the convenience store.

Charles follows her faint footsteps, keeps his eyes on her ever fading retreating back as she walks on and on, past the shadowed boulevard, past the pale church. He circles the block with her and stops at another intersection as her back gets fully erased by the darkness.

What made him think that he could add anything new? He shuts his eyes and goes over her route one more time.

Last time she was spotted it happened right when she was leaving her house. It was all in the paper. A school guard, when double checking the gate, recalled seeing someone of slim stature walking down the street. It would be logical to presume and therefore exploit the conjecture that Jubilation, or Jubilee, like she insisted to be called, had left on her own volition; that someone must have waited for her, most probably, in a vehicle of some sort. All in all, it did look like a case of fleeing lovers. But, for once, there is that crumpled note, which is screaming, practically yelling that something is missing, something is wrong.

She hated being late, she once confessed online, but she always was, despite her best efforts. Was she enthusiastic about this date? Or wasn't she?

What if she had just come across a random stranger? Just a predator on the lookout?

Charles runs both hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. He feels like he is stuck in a desolate chamber with constant static noise, where she is the only person who can let him out — his judge and his persecutor.

.

.

.

Voices come when Charles is doing the dishes. A male and a female are talking rather loudly outside. And though he is normally curious about his mysterious neighbours, this morning his head is lethargically woozy due to last night's investigative endeavour and late return, so his interest is turned down to the lowest degree.

"No, I've had enough!"

The woman raises her voice so much that the words get carried inside through the top portion of kitchen window, which he usually keeps open.

The reply is indiscernible, granting the idea that either the man's voice is naturally harsh and rumbling or the other is trying to subdue emotions from leaking into verbal exchange.

"Oh, yes?! It was awfully thoughtful of you," she laughs in a strained way, which makes Charles regret that he started listening to this argument in the first place.

Doesn't this man notice how deep is affront in her voice, how hurt she is. Maybe they have been together for so long that he doesn't pay attention anymore; desensitised to her emotional needs and feelings.

Thankfully, his phone begins ringing, playing the most annoying melody he could find on the list, and buzzing on top of the table. He wipes his hands with a dish towel and after checking the caller ID presses his phone between his shoulder and ear. To avoid any more cutting noise Charles drags his sluggish body to the living room and shuts the kitchen door.

"Hello," says Jean. "How are you doing today?"

She is always less formal on the phone.

"Decent," picks the right adjective Charles and Jean chuckles in response.

While mulling over the question, which he intended to ask, Charles misses her next words entirely and says a random "I guess", which apparently was exactly what she was hoping to hear.

"Okay! Please, don't forget about it next Saturday. And I don't know how it's done elsewhere, but here we expect our guests to arrive on time. I'll mark you as confirmed. And also I'm obliged to remind everyone that it is a "black tie preferred" event," she says mildly and trained tediousness in her tone is more telling than a thousand words. "Do you know how to get there?"

"I'll be fine," he says, thinking that there is too much hassle around this Town Day.

"Goodbye, then, Professor. See you on Monday."

"See you," he echoes and puts the phone on the table, next to that yellow folder he retrieved from his office.

"I never asked whose it was," he grumbles aloud and looks up.

Seated as she is, in the armchair opposite his, she watches the ceiling and her lips are moving slightly, as though she is praying.

He thumps his stone-heavy head back. When he looks at the armchair again she's gone.

"What I need is more information to pinpoint who is lying. Someone is. Family? Friends? Police?"

But what can he do? He can't approach her grieving family and start asking questions. This is a sure way to face charges and get suspended and thus offer Stryker a splendid opportunity to fire him.

The thing is: Charles genuinely likes it here.

That yellow folder suddenly catches his eye, tantalising him, feeding him a promise of an easy mystery, which is as close at hand as it can be.

Whatever he decides to do about her case will be done later. He can't stand inaction right now.

It is an ordinary thin folder with a rubber band keeping its contents from falling out. Charles carefully pulls it back and opens it. There are a few empty blanks and a brown envelope inside. After looking through blanks he dismisses them as clean and takes the envelope. It is made of rough quality paper and its bottom is a little protruding. Apparently, it wasn't sealed properly, because when Charles shakes it, the contents spill out on his coffee table and on the carpet. Yellowish human teeth scatter all over the place and his eyes widen as he slowly puts the envelope back on the table.

.

.

.

On Mondays Charles has an after lunch lecture on Introduction to Social Psychiatry, which is not exactly his subject to cover and which was literally shoved into his face after the prior lecturer had been sacked along with a dozen of others. He leaves the lecture hall oddly exhausted: his blood is simmering, nose is stuffed with cotton, and his throat is hot oven.

It doesn't take a genius to recognize the nasty bug creeping closer. Wary of his state, Charles bundles up very carefully despite sunny afternoon.

Bright sunlight and golden foliage seem to be mocking his misery and being tremendously successful. He squints up at the sky and almost misses a flash of the person he wanted to talk to since morning.

Doctor MacTaggert has just disappeared around the corner, her brown jacket melting in the distance. Charles tamps down the urge to let it be. He adjusts the strap of his bag and quickens his pace.

He catches up with her when she's pulling open the cafeteria door and she seizes him up with a look which seems to be a lot colder in comparison to their introduction exchange some time ago.

"Excuse me, Doctor MacTaggert, I—"

"Are you coming in or not?" she arches an eyebrow, holding the door open.

Charles' sense of smell is dead and buried, because every visit to this place is associated with overpowering aroma of fresh pastry and coffee. He also has trouble concentrating on her words — an unwelcome discovery.

"Of course, I'm coming. Thank you," he nods and then holds the door for two laughing girls in fancy long coats, who are balancing one coffee take out container per hand.

By the time he joins her at the counter she is already pouring milk in her tea and is quickly typing something on her phone. Under different circumstances Charles would bet that she is avoiding his eyes on purpose. At the moment he wishes his brain matter consisted of active neurons not dysfunctional zombie cells.

"Please, something hot," he rasps to the solemn-looking barista named Scott.

"Can you define something, please?"

"Anything is fine," Charles squeezes out a smile.

The girl, wearing the same brown apron as barista, and busy with wiping the counter stifles a snicker.

"We don't sell alcohol," warns him overzealous Scott.

"I'll make you tea, sir," chirps in the girl, whose name-tag is suddenly blurry.

"Thank you."

After shrugging off his coat Charles sits on the stool next to hunched MacTaggert and adopts a light, friendly tone.

"Will you let me treat you to a dessert in exchange for a brief chat?"

She jolts up, slightly, and though her face remains impassive, she leans forward and tilts her head to the side — Charles' clue that he's probably doing it right.

"No, I won't," she tells him so very dryly without a hint of pleasant interest that was there before. "We can talk though, only if you agree to call me Moira, because I feel ancient when young staff members refer to me with honorifics."

"Charles, then," nods Charles, swallowing a remark about young staff members with ease born of constant practice. From his viewpoint, Moira doesn't look like she has aged a single day after thirty, but Charles knows better than anyone how deceptive looks are.

"What's the deal?"

"I'm in need of your professional expertise," he adopts a serious voice, appealing to her sudden hard bitten side.

She sits straighter, taken aback.

"Unless you accidentally uncovered an early man site I haven't heard of, there's not a lot I can do for you," she is openly studying his face and her interest is like a shroud, insphering her utterly and completely.

Charles takes his time sipping a newly arrived tea and gathering his thoughts. Distracting, feverish heat is licking his face and his neck as though he is sitting next to the bonfire.

"I've just acquired a copy of your "Theories of Primitive Rituals". Your work is simply outstanding," he begins.

"Well, thank you."

She smiles, still tight-lipped, and thus there comes a wish they were in the bar instead. Alcohol fumes are certainly some famous conversation booster.

"So it happened, that right now I'd appreciate a brief sympathetic magic tutorial. That is, if you can spare a minute or two. You might be wondering why, so let me clarify it first," Charles says as smoothly as he can, and though it's not exactly a lie he's going to tell, his heartbeat speeds up nonetheless.

"Okay, I'm all ears."

She instantly locks gazes with him and Charles realises how dark and deep her eyes are. Like the well. Like the abyss.

"I've just started working at the Grey Yard, you see."

The expressions that flicker on and off her face are rather odd.

"Uhm, well, rumour has it they don't take well to outsiders," she rumbles, seemingly to herself, and the corner of her lips twists downwards.

"I hope you can understand why it should be confidential," Charles lowers his voice conspiratorially, "I've got a patient: a difficult, troubled man, who seems to be obsessed with a particular idea. I absolutely can't disclose anything now, and, um, any guidance kindly provided by you would be very helpful. In order to help this person I have to study this phenomenon."

Charles plays patient confidentiality card with remorse. However, truth be told, had he just approached her and started asking questions about the significance of human teeth in certain rituals, she would probably be even less pleased.

"Are you familiar with the concept of Law of Similarity and Contact? Like you can you use the lock of hair to lay the curse on the victim, or, for instance, some ground from the graveyard dusted on their doorstep is believed to summon death. Crude methods the likes of which are still used all over the world. More often than I previously imagined, to be honest," she hums, somehow amused and exasperated.

"Amazingly enough, I agree," says Charles, "and thanks to your book I've got a notion of a disturbing kind."

And thanks to whoever decided to drop thirteen human teeth in his office. Here Charles has to gulp down a lump for there's a subliminal, almost primal urge to shrink away from it, to sweep it away and wipe his memory clean.

"What exactly?"

"You strongly imply that savage ascendancy is what remains constant throughout humankind even in post-industrial era."

"The so-called average person in the general population has mentality of that born in the Middle Ages, Charles," she starts and then her phone buzzes.

The sentence is left hanging in the air, as well as entire conversation.

"Sorry, it's urgent," Moira quickly types a reply and then meets his eyes. "I have to go. I also feel that I have to apologize. You know that, right? That nasty article left quite an impression. I might have misjudged you."

"Oh, you're neither the first person to tell me this nor the last. I will refrain from interviews from now on," smiles Charles thinly.  
.

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

.

.

Three days pass, but Charles still feels bad. And grouchy. Why he isn't on the sick leave, again? Oh, no one to fill in for him? As should be expected.

These days, his disposition is agonisingly sore as well as his throat. It persists hurting despite medicine, and his head is marching to the wrong drum. Some persistent drum, which reverberates even all over the floor.

Wait a minute.

Charles turns off the music, her music, and distinctly hears thumping against the wall from his neighbour's side.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry!" Charles tries to overcome hoarseness and raise his voice, but immediately gives up.

"I thought nobody was home," he adds in guilty whisper.

When he came back home, all windows were black and curtains were drawn.

Now, no matter how much he strains his ears, no more noises come from behind the wall.

It's almost midnight, so he collects his laptop and moves to the kitchen, quietly closing the doors to the living room.

Charles isn't listening to music on her playlist just because he likes it. He feels it. He feels that she's falling out of reach. Her story isn't on the front page any more. Her name isn't repeated in the faculty lounge as often. No awkward whispers accompanied by curious looks and simulated concern. Something bigger than a simple sense of obligation makes him go through her public profile again and again. The shape of things to come is contained in its origin. But, can he discern it — that's the most important question.

And, there is also a matter of teeth. He cringes when the memory resurfaces.

Tamping down unease, he had carefully collected them in an empty tea box and, after some contemplation, put the box on the top of the bookcase. After taking a good look at them he came to conclusion that those were not primary teeth. Too big and well-developed. By claiming that they're human Charles could have also been wrong. Just similar? Maybe? It was a possibility.  
He studied both the envelope and the yellow folder with utmost precision. And they were, well, pretty ordinary. Charles could venture a guess that the folder with an incomprehensible scribbling on top was just used to conceal the envelope.

But what does this mean?

In fact, it could have belonged to the teacher, who had occupied his office before. It could, but, well, Charles recalls disposing of all residual paper trash. Yes, he didn't move furniture around that much, but he did clean out everything. Or did he? With that question on hold he pondered on.

Soon, he dismissed a possibility of silly prank because of inconsistency, dismissed a coincidence, because you hardly forget a packet of teeth in someone else's office. You don't accidentally drop it into easily conceivable space either. The crazy options which remained involved: a strange fetish and a curse. And if Charles has learned anything from his encounters with twisted paradox called human mind, it was this — you can never hope to perceive it all. Meaning, always be ready to throw your preconceived assumptions out of the window.

.

.

.  
He and Jean are walking together from the parking lot. It's a cold, windy day with clouds chasing the sun and leaves and dust being thrown into his face.

Students are not roaming around that much. Charles learns that this time of the year, on winter's doorstep, they prefer to hang around in cafeterias, lounges and pavilions. The area around the fountain is almost deserted. That's why Charles catches sight of Moira and Worthington, a younger detective from Lehnsherr's team, having an argument. They are too far to be overheard. Besides, Charles can only see Moira's back, but he can see Worthington clearly. His hands are pressed into fists and his body adopts that defensive stance, which reminds Charles of spooked animals and children awaiting punishment.

Jean also spares a look in that direction but she doesn't appear surprised upon the sight.

When the doors of central campus cut off howling wind, Jean, being smart and shrewd in a truly amazing way, offers a comment.

"A family dispute… that was."

"Are they related?" he asks incredulously.

"I flatter myself that I'm not a gossip girl," sighs Jean, unwinding her scarf.

"You're not, by all means. You're just saving me from obligatory faux pas. And my gratitude knows no bounds," Charles adds, straining his voice.

They turn around the corner, towards the great staircase opening at the far end of dimly lit corridor. These are the type of marble stairs one expects to be covered with grand red carpet and dusted by valets. Someone is descending. Hushed footsteps get louder and louder until a striking woman with white-grey hair comes down, passing them on her way. She and Jean exchange amicable hellos.

Jean starts talking after that woman is out of hearing range.

"Doctor Mactaggert married his father a few years ago. It was quite a shock for everyone, because Worthingtons are a rich and influential bunch. So what do you expect? People were talking then, some are still talking now. I envy her so much."

"Really?" Charles can't keep surprise from leaking out.

"Not climbing the social ladder part," smiles Jean. "But her grit, um, no, I'd rather say her force of character. If it bothers her, she never shows it. Her lifestyle hasn't even changed much."

People who possess undistorted view of their personal value are rare like gemstones. Moira seems to be the one. Jean is, too. Though she might not realise it yet, thinks Charles with a soft smile.

"Could you meet me in the stuff library in the afternoon?" He's been wrestling with this decision for a while now, but after looking at her earnest face he loses all doubts. "I want to tell you something important sounds terrible, I know, but this is the best way to phrase it."

"Sure," nods Jean and adds, almost as an afterthought. "Not sure I can stay long, although."

"I'll cut the story short for you," promises Charles.  
.

.

.

By the time he finishes telling her everything, his voice has turned into harsh whisper.

"Huh, this is weird," surmises Jean quietly. "Who could enter your office except you?"

"A lot of people, I suppose."

Goodness, but he's done talking. Every time he as much as swallows the pain gets worse.

He clears his throat and goes on.

"A custodian, a janitor, a night guard, a door keeper, for instance. It's not a bank as I was told by the custodian and nothing is missing. Well, technically he is right."

"But, you see, you look quite unwell, Professor," Jeans leans closer. "I don't want to impose, but can it be related, to, you know…"

"No, it can't," he groans. Not you, Jean. Not magical thinking, please. "My ailment is just an unfortunate coincidence with no supernatural elements involved. If I should disregard an ounce of bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

"Had been sharing a close space with someone already infected."

"I hope this person is feeling sorry for doing that to you!"

"I doubt that. Look here, please, it's essential that we concentrate on the missing student, not on someone's ludicrous attempt at witchcraft."

"Will you be helping the police?" her eyes light up with apprehension.

He doesn't think they are willing to accept his, how Lehnsherr defined it, meddling.

"We shall see," he says evasively. "Jean, can you talk to her teachers?"

Jeans nods. She looks contemplative.

"Thank you. Anything, any personal clues or bits, which are not online or in the papers, will be of immense help. And I'm going to do something what I should have done long ago."

"Investigate?"

"I'm not a detective, Jean. I don't have proper resources," he shakes his head. "But, I believe, scientific method is applicable in this case, so I'll try to go back in time and gain a new perspective. I need to know whether or not people disappeared here in the same fashion before."

.

.

.

As soon as he comes home, he goes straight for the hot, scalding shower. Then, he treats himself to a glass of whiskey tea with honey. It isn't a cure for his condition, but it does offer some relief.

Somehow, he manages to get pretty tipsy, which, he reasons, is not because of that little bit of alcohol he consumed. The potent blend of exhaustion and slight fever make him heavy-eyed.

He peers at the computer screen, debating now where to start. Beside him, on the kitchen table, there's a pile of paper and a pen. He can't be more ready than he is right now.

Charles makes a bonus concession to his state, pouring himself one more cup of tea.

While it's cooling down, he mindlessly clicks on the link to some news website. The title of the article that emerges first is probably the result of all his bizarre search requests combined. It says — _The Satanism Scare_. He scans the article, cringing. It appears, someone used the gritty performance to facilitate their sexual acts, resulting in unnecessary hype and public hysteria. He definitely needs the Anthropology Degree, he decides. Yes, that coupled with those he already has will be a great combination. That thought is surprisingly invigorating. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a brief moment, whilst he is contemplating how many generations he should cover.

One generation will be a good start. That means he should go back approximately thirty years in time.

Glirham online library has a fee-based account, which gives him the access to their old newspaper archive.

He pays for it and discovers an inconvenience as soon as he registers his account. Although, the archive contains newspapers, magazines and journals dating back to the end of eighteenth century, it hasn't been fully indexed into searchable text databases yet. Only newer newspapers are available as full text. Charles tries them first. To be on the safe side and in order to get a full picture, he explores one of his early hypotheses, using key entries like _attempted_ _suicide, suicide note_ with different alterations.

 _Suicide_ and _attempted suicide_ search results perfectly adhere to worldwide statistics and infamous gender paradox: the incidence of completed suicides among men prevail those of women. Since he's looking for young adults he narrows down his search and excludes men and women over twenty one and patients with reported mental health disorders. The correlation of male-female rate gets negligible. Odd. He begins taking notes with a pen as he scans the articles and dismisses some results.

According to the latest psychological research only one in six leaves a suicide note, or so it should be. Here comes the first disalignment, because when he cross references _suicide note_ and _suicide_ , the rate is higher than expected. It is roughly one to three.

Charles absently reaches out for the abandoned cup of tea and after a sip discovers it attuned to room temperature.

He leans back and rolls his shoulders to work out stiff muscles and in doing so looks around his kitchen to give his eyes a rest. He likes the rough ruggedness of old kitchen set that he bought with a house. It usually brings to life homely and nostalgic undertones. Tonight, though, there is something vile in lurking shadows. Of course, it's likely the topic of research that's getting to him and enhancing his overactive imagination.

Back to work, he reminds himself, and excludes suicide notes which included instructions how to dispose of remains and confessions of committing crime, especially common among young men. He is left with messages leaden with guilt, those attempting to impose guilt on the living, and expression of feelings and thoughts not expressed during lifetime.

There are still thirteen people left. A very disturbing trend if he's ever seen any. And here are those worthy of being mentioned in the most read papers. And only during last decade. Many of similar cases were never brought to community's attention, simply buried deep, in police and hospital archives. Charles analyses each of fifteen cases with increased focus.

To the casual reader that might not look much, but to him article phrasing speaks volumes. Processing words and their multiple meaning as they emerge with a press of pen onto the sheet, or ink press, or in communication can convey a lot. There's a pattern in everyone's writing, a message, charged by emotional state and cognizant skill.

It's exactly like Jean has put it — what isn't said is the real story.

Real paper has always seemed suitable for tracing out the subtle connections. The process helps him pinpoint all crucial details. Handwriting is a complex task which requires various skills – feeling the pen and paper, moving the writing implement, and directing every step by thought. And though, his thoughts are getting grimmer and grimmer, he keeps writing until he filters out four foundation profiles.

The first one, Talia Wagner, was reported missing by her foster mother eleven autumns ago. The small picture depicts a girl with shoulder length dark hair and large eyes. She was barely seventeen at the time. Left a note on her bed and disappeared into the night. The tone of her note, though soaked with guilt, led the investigating team to believe that she had fled with a lover. Besides, her close friend had recounted seeing Talia with an unfamiliar man a week prior her disappearance. Criminal investigation ceased.

Gloria Brickman, twenty years old, had left a succinct, soulful message " _Sorry… My life is hard to bear_." nine years ago. She had been repeatedly abused by her late boyfriend in public. Therefore, upon her disappearance he was immediately arrested, but never confessed murdering her. And it seems her name got into news only because she dated a son of the then Chief of Police. Her body was never found, but nobody doubted her boyfriend's involvement. The reporter even implied that the note might be forged.

There was also Justine Chase, who used to be a promising freshman at Glirham University. As she wasn't a town resident, her disappearance was reported by her dormitory neighbour, who has also discovered a note. It happened five years ago.

Charles included Leon Matheson: a nineteen year old student. Also disappeared. Also left an expressive note. Leon stood out, of course, but for now it's better to include him, because, like all females on Charles' list, he disappeared at the end of October. It happened two years ago.

.

.

.

Having worked all night long, Charles barely crawls into bed when the clock strikes half past six. Before pulling up a duvet, all the way over his head, he thinks: oh my, it's already Saturday. But he fails to comprehend why this thought sparks anxiety.

When he cracks his eyes open, with quite considerable effort, stray sunrays are cutting off just the edge of his bed. Charles blinks at them in disorientation. Judging by their respective angle, the sun is about to fall over the tree line, which is impossible, because he couldn't have been asleep for more than a few hours. He grabs his mobile from the nightstand and sees eight missed calls. Not to be disturbed he turned off sound yesterday evening. But that's not what makes him get out of bed extremely quickly. It's the time. Twenty past four. The dinner party starts at five.

Charles never considered the ability to get dressed quickly his personal forte. Usually, it's a quiet process, which starts in the evening, when he goes through his wardrobe in his head, and continues in the morning, when he actually takes into consideration the weather factor. He gets through it ten times faster this time. However, it doesn't help much.

The place is called Diamondback. His taxi drops him outside half an hour late.

A full-service restaurant is in the charming lobby, designed to resemble traditional crème and white chic. Through large doors leading from the foyer he sees the crowd of well-dressed men and women. They are already seated at the tables, applauding to something or, rather, someone.

Of course, everything starts on time, sighs Charles, giving up his coat and invitation.

"Xavier," Stryker's voice jabs from the back. "You're late. What a total absence of surprise!"

Stryker is accompanied by his wife, wearing a loose white dress, — a respective match to the dean's white suit.

"Please, stop being rude, William," his wife admonishes.

"My sincere apologies. I do deserve a reprimand, mam."

"Oh, that's all right. I'm Marcy. And you are our young Professor. Can I call you Charles?"

She is a bright eyed and energetic lady, approximately of her husband's respectable age. Although, she tries to be much more likeable.

"I'd be delighted," smiles Charles amicably.

They exchange a brief handshake under Striker's dull stare.

"I have heard a lot about you. My friends and I are fond of whispering among ourselves of new handsome men in town."

His face immediately gets warmer. Charles is struck by the difference his recent reclusive lifestyle has made. As if, after moving here he's become a different person, suddenly redeveloping a long-lost sensitivity to teasing. The insight is quite powerful and therefore leaves him speechless for a little while. Enough to be misinterpreted, though.

"Oh, god," she flashes him a coy smile. She's got a lot of happy wrinkles. "I'll stop embarrassing you this instant. Please, come along with us."

The room is big and lit by massive chandeliers. The buzz of conversation is going up and down like waves. There are islands of laughter here and there. People he recognises. People he doesn't know.

Charles' faculty members occupy the corner table. They watch him being paraded to the dean's table with bewilderment.

Introductions passed. Pleasantries exchanged. And as he is seated between Stryker and Miss Munroe, that beautiful white-haired woman from earlier, an obligatory champagne flute in his hand, he is feeling light-headed.

Whilst Striker is saying a toast, a sick churning sensation floods Charles. Too warm. Is it the room or is it him? To make the matters worse, he makes a mistake and sips champagne. The drink smashes his taste buds with invasive dryness. While it rolls in his gut, he breaks into a cold sweat. Faces around the table turn blurry for a millisecond. Charles is so busy trying to keep himself from the unspeakable, that he barely registers what is going on around. Until he hears someone talking to him.

"Xavier, you look green."

It's Stryker, out of all people, who leans in and whispers quickly.

"I'm begging you, don't make a scene."

"All right. I shall not," gets out Charles.

And though he really means it, words come out like a snap.

"Excuse me. I'll go get a breath of fresh air. Please, go on," says Stryker, rising suddenly.

"William, what's the matter?"

"Everything's fine. Charles, will you accompany me?"

Charles nods mutely and carefully extracts himself from his chair. People at their table are collective blur of sparks, white and black, distorted faces staring at him. They are all wearing masks. Their eyes are caging his every move.

In the foyer Stryker stops to speak to the passing waitress.

Charles sags into a conveniently placed armchair, closes his eyes and breathes through vertigo and frustration. Stray strands of hair tickle his temples distractingly. He is too disconnected from his body to experience any type of shame right now. Oh, well, that was partially his own fault: driving himself faint, forgetting to eat, etcetera, etcetera.

Gentle violins begin vibrating in the air, plucking at Charles' ears. The timbre is both silvery and hot. Music means dancing. This is the part of the evening, which could have been enjoyable, he thinks with resignation.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The waitress is holding a tray with a glass on it.

"Sir, would you like a glass of mineral water?"

"Yeah, thank you."

"Do you need anything else?"

"No, not now."

When he turns to look for Stryker, he sees him next to the administrator desk, thievishly tucking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his coat pocket. Their eyes meet for a split second and Charles nods, conveying thank you in a non-verbal way.

In five minutes or so, as Charles is wondering whether he should stand up or not, Moira comes out of the doors to talk on the phone. Her cheeks are pleasantly flushed. A tall man, her faculty head, trails along behind her. They retrieve their coats and go outside.

Charles inqures about the restroom and follows the directions. Whilst walking down the crème corridor, he is thinking about coming back and rehearsing certain lines: to smoothen his return.

First, Charles hears the strangled gargling sound. Then, he turns around the corner and something heavy slams into him. He lifts his hands instinctively. He sees some odd movement on the periphery, but he won't recall it until later, much later.

The body plunges hard. Face down. There is a split moment during which Charles is looking at a splatter of red on his white shirt.

You can never get ready for this. He certainly isn't.

He turns the man. His chest is a mess of blood. Charles pulls off his jacket.

A woman screams behind his back.

He turns his head back so fast that it spins. She's leaning on the wall; her sharp whimpers are interlaced with sobs. Her face is stark white and she is covering her mouth with her shaking hand.

"Call the ambulance! Hurry!" his harsh voice nearly betrays him.

Whilst he's kneeling on the floor, in the puddle of hot blood, his heart is trying to beat its way through his chest and he starts feeling cold all over. To him, the blood seems to be steaming. It doesn't just ooze. It pulses against his folded jacket, clings to his hands, laid on the wounds in vain.

More people arrive and clutter behind his back. He doesn't turn around but he hears the thumping of different feet and raised voices.

Someone kneels next to him and curses aloud.

It's irreversible, he thinks.

This could be around three to four pints of blood already lost. At this point, the heart rate intensifies as the organ is straining to get enough oxygen to tissues. Blood pressure drops. Smaller blood vessels are constricting to keep the body core circulation going. At this point hypovolemic shock is setting in and the limit of body's compensation is reached.

Invariably fatal.

.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

.

.

.

His jacket and shirt were so bloodstained that he couldn't picture himself ever touching them again. That's why he had to get rid of both. The police hoodie, he was kindly offered, is a tad scratchy from the inside. There are dozens of invisible ants crawling up and down his arms, his torso and, especially, his back.

"Please, look at the picture one more time," asks him Karami insistently, tapping his finger against the worn corner of black and white photo.

One more tap and the picture comes alive for a second: the man's ragged face gets split by a large grin. Be welcome, hallucinations, muses aware part of Charles.

"I'm afraid I can't help you," Charles draws in a breath, while steady, raw thumping migrates to his temples. "I never saw him before. I'm sorry."

"Sure?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. It's horrible, isn't it? I – I didn't even look up at his face. I was thinking of stopping the bleeding, of calling for help, but disregarded a vital part. Why? I am not sure yet…"

Although, the old detective doesn't interrupt him, Charles' rambling all but dies out when he reminds himself that he's not having a concealing session. Rather, he is being questioned by the police. But who can really blame him. He's already sick of this pale room with lack of furniture, but, he reckons, calling his lawyer is not necessary. Suffice it to say, he tried to keep that man alive. He failed. Period.

"Are you absolutely sure you have never encountered or otherwise came across Frank Blake?"

Now, he was finally given the name to mull over. And for all intents and purposes it shouldn't affect him. This officer is doing it by the oldest book there is, for goodness' sake. But the name does ring a bell. He feels as though those invisible ants dig deeper into his skin, burrow into flesh.

All of the sudden, he recalled that name from his yesterday's research. Is this the Blake? Gloria Brickman's boyfriend? If this is true, when did they let him out of prison?

Unfortunately, he said that bit out loud.

"That's interesting that you know him now, isn't it?" Karami mirrored his earlier intonation. "What a coincidence!"

"For the record, it isn't that much of the coincidence," swiftly retorted Charles, having gained back a semblance of composure.

Then, he did something, which he never ever considered doing, especially while talking to police, and came up with an emergency lie.

"I've been researching suicide rates in the region for my future article on psychological autopsy study. Gloria Brickman's presumed suicide was one of the cases that appeared particularly mystifying in nature."

"But you're claiming that you've never seen Blake before?"

"Exactly," nodded Charles with conviction and what he hoped was straight face.

The sudden sense of alienation from his body came along with a slight tremor. He self-diagnosed it as a side effect of stress. The backlash was closing in.

Karami just continued to watch him with dull expectation.

The bubble of quiet staring bursts as the doors opens and none other than detective Lehnsherr leans in.

"A word?"

Frowning, he pointedly looks at Karami and his eyes slide off Charles as though he doesn't recognise him. His mouth is a downturned curve of displeasure.

Karami collects his folder and gets up with a grunt. After he shuts the door Charles finds himself alone. In almost complete silence. It stretches taut, like a rubber band, but not thin enough to snap.

In a minute or so, the door swings open again.

"You're free to go," says Lehnsherr.

"Thank you," sighs Charles quietly and rises up.

However, Lehnsherr doesn't move away from his spot in the doorway.

"I owe you a favour. Would you like a ride home?"

"Thank you. I'd love to get home as fast as possible," manages Charles gratefully, and nearly sags in relief.

"Let's go, then."

On the way out of the station they pass only several men and women in uniform. Lehnsherr picks up his pace after two people try to strike up a conversation. He and Charles leave through the back exit – a smaller door with a no-smoking sign on it.

In the car, Charles finally has a chance for closer inspection of the other's face: in Lehnsherr's hollowed cheeks and dark circles under grey eyes he sees his own reflection. Under the street light spilling in through windshield glass he appears as tired as Charles feels.

"Did you have a long day?" asks Charles, strapping in with partially disobedient hands.

"As usual."

His hair seems darker and his features take on sharper angles, seeing that his face is partially smudged by falling shadows. When he turns to look into the side view mirror Charles notices how his hair curls just above his nape. Then, he decides that obvious staring, if detected, might be considered impolite and looks elsewhere.

Lehnsherr's car smells like old leather and some kind of spice. Charles briefly luxuriates in the pleasant warmth it provides. Being out of smart words, he is fine without a small talk. Although, he thinks, Lehnsherr is the one who looks wired, despite projected fake calm. His guess is – Lehnsherr didn't offer him a ride out of the goodness of his heart. Charles, who usually likes to keep seeking out good traits in people, can't help the cynical thoughts from floating up to the surface. Where did they come from? Were they always there, or is it his default stress setting?

"You're fairly calm for someone who has witnessed death at close hand. Or is it not your first time?"

"It's my first time," replies Charles frankly, with a shudder he doesn't bother covering up, "and, I believe, I'll have what is called a delayed shock, which is even worse manageable than the acute reaction. In case you're wondering."

Lehnsherr huffs a short, dry laugh in response, which should be inappropriate, but somehow isn't.

"I think, it will be okay. After all, managing difficult mental conditions is part of your occupation. Correct me if I'm wrong. What matters is that this is Karami's last case," tells him Lehnsherr and adds, listlessly. "He will taste the pleasures of free retirement pretty soon. That's why he'll be just going through motions with this one. I'd say: nothing to worry about."

"Thank you. Though it's not reassuring, in the least."

"It depends on the point of view," Lehnsherr smirks, lopsided, and turns to him as they stop at the traffic lights. "My point is: he's not meddling with something he knows is beyond him. He'll let it go. Wisely."

On hearing it, Charles literally feels the net drawing tight around his chest. A weight of understanding is setting deeper. It's another admonition, he thinks bitterly.

"How do you like this town, by the way?" asks Lenhsherr after a moment of heavy silence. "Don't you think it gets deserted too early?"

"Yeah, I noticed. This is very peculiar," Charles looks sideways at passing street lights, welcoming a change of topic. "Have you lived here all your life?"

"Hm, no," Lehnsherr adopts a lighter tone now when the warning has been passed. "I moved here recently from across the country. My transfer came as a shock to everyone in the department."

As he is saying it he almost sounds like he finds a special brand of delight in above mentioned shock.

"I can only imagine," says Charles flatly. "It must have been quite a stir."

"Well, the stir it was. It also appears strange that people I've met here are willing prisoners of their background. Moreso than anywhere else."

"As if the idea of social mobility didn't take on," echoes Charles and steals a sharp look at the man, surprised by the eloquence of his observation and unusual speech pattern.

They have almost arrived, but someone calls Lehnsherr on the phone. He checks the caller ID and picks up with a darkening face. Whilst he is replying with one-syllable words, Charles continues to marvel, if only slightly, how quickly and professionally the man can switch between moods. Or, rather, act.

The car stops at Charles' gate.

"There was a local domestic in the neighbourhood," Lehnsherr explains, "I need to go back, but I'd like to continue our conversation later. If you recall anything, please, contact me immediately. Your phone?"

Charles hands it to him and Lehnsherr quickly types in his number.

"But this isn't your investigation. I'm sure that we will be breaking some laws – ", trails off Charles.

"No, it isn't mine, but, let's say, I'm a very concerned party. I treat law like guidance, not like obligatory rules," Lehnsherr offers him a noncommittal shrug, but Charles has a distinct impression that he is being mocked.

"I should have guessed," mutters Charles in response.

As the car drives away, Charles grabs the metal post, which is not an easy feat at the moment. He hangs his head, heaving. Nausea was waiting all this time to twist his stomach in a tight knot.

.

.

.

To say that the murder shook him was an understatement. What was unusual – it made Charles helplessly angry. That man, whose blood Charles was yesterday soaked in, and spent plenty of time washing off his hands, used to be, by any definition, hardly a nice man. True, Frank Blake was a despicable abuser and a criminal, but was he a killer? The person who murdered him certainly was.

The local news was all about him. Therefore, Charles learned that Blake had spent eight years in prison for incitement to suicide and illegal possession of drugs and was released a month ago. Gloria Brickman's suicide slash disappearance case was too thin, evidence inconclusive – boldly reported the woman, who then started to interview the Chief of Police. Charles turned it off when he heard the man dive into sophistic reasoning after each simplistic question.

Despite terrible night, he felt mentally prepared to continue his investigation, so, putting aside yet another Lehnsherr's so called insistent advice, on Sunday afternoon Charles came up with a new plan of action.

He was surprised that she instantly agreed to speak with him about what happened eleven years ago. Though he tried to approach her cautiously, with tact and understanding, he was lying again: telling her about his suicide research in vague terms.

Miss Adler lives in the posh park district he is familiar with, so he decided to walk and it took him about half an hour to reach the red-brick condo, hidden behind tall pines and an intricate iron fence. Dead ivy leaves are falling down, crunching beneath his feet. He looks up right in the dark unblinking eye of security camera, and presses the button. As soon as he hears the beep he pushes the gate open and steps onto a paved pathway, decorated by dark winterberry.

At the solid polished door, Charles was greeted by an elderly man, who welcomed him in, took his coat and informed that miss Adler was waiting for him in the living room.

Charles follows the man down the carpeted corridor and when the doors to the living room open he takes a moment to appreciate the thought put into design.

It is a kingdom of white and grey minimalism intertwined with ironwork. Windows are large and curtainless. Charles' aesthetical sense is taken hostage by delicate harmony of space and light.

The young mistress of the house looks somewhat fragile amidst whiteness and her deep voice on the phone doesn't quite match her appearance. She greets him from the sofa, where she is petting a silky black cat, stretched over her lap.

"Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?" she offers pleasantly.

"No, thank you," smiles Charles. "I hate to impose, though it seems that I already did."

"Nonsense. I enjoy getting visitors."

As the man shuts the doors behind Charles, the cat gets startled and jumps onto the floor.

A three legged ottoman is the only piece of furniture stationed opposite the sofa. Charles sits down, but not before sidestepping the cat, who tries to grab his ankle.

"Hope, you don't mind Rogue. She is very curious."

"Oh, I don't. She's lovely," Charles gazes after the cat, "Miss Adler, I – "

"Irene."

"Okay, Irene," he fights the urge to lick his chapped lips, "I'm sorry to bring up the tragedy. More than anything, I loathe hurting your feelings, but, I think, that without your help I won't be able to reconstruct the key events."

"You needn't worry, Charles. To be honest, I kind of expected someone to inquire about Talia sooner or later," she tilts her head to the side and only then Charles adds two and two together.

Her eyes aren't focused. At all. Charles stomps on his natural curiosity, because, surely, this is the last thing she wants to be asked.

"How well did you know Talia?" he asks instead.

"Rather well. We used to be class-mates. She was very bright. A promising one, they used to say. She was a little older," Irene looks at him with her beautiful unseeing eyes and Charles perceives a distinct prickle of pain.

"Can you describe your friend? What was she like?"

"She was, um, gentle, caring. Liked to read those ridiculous paperbacks… Trashy love stories."

"Do you recall the titles?"

"Let me think," she furrows her brow, and her lips twist, a fraction. "No, I don't. It is important for your research?"

"Very important. Essentially, my goal is to get to know Talia better, and, please, trust me, these little details give away too much to be neglected."

"In that case, I'll call you as soon as I recall any. Though, when I said trashy, I really meant that."

"You have already been a great help, Irene. A few more things, if you will?"

"Okay."

"Could you say that Talia had a passive accepting attitude towards the world? The excessive need for contentment and security?"

"Ah, it's for research. Yes, yes to both," she smiles in a sad way. "If you put it in a bookish manner."

"I see. I prefer bookish ways," Charles smiles in return, and even if she can't see it, she must sense a smile in his voice.

"So I was right. You do care," she says then and her breath hitches. "Sorry, sorry. You might think it shouldn't be this difficult after all these years, but it is. Charles, you probably didn't come to hear all this, but I feel that I have to tell you anyway."

If he didn't already feel bad about lying, he would be right now.

"You can. By all means," he says gently, noticing that she's waiting for him to say something.

"I saw him. A man. As clear as day. It was late afternoon. Talia lied to me that she had to go home early. She never did. Never lied to me, I'm sure. Imagine my surprise when I met her holding hands with the unfamiliar man. Just when I was on my way back from my piano classes. I ran right into them."

"Do you recall his face?" his throat tightens.

Charles wasn't going to ask about it: he only wanted the girl to come alive in his mind. He wanted to see and to distinguish the entire pattern if there was any. He deemed the rest less important. That shadow of the presence hanging above her life.

"As if," Irene shakes her head slowly, "I saw him, but I didn't really see him. How can I say it? Um, I knew that he was tall, the older man, but that's it. Seemed nice. Can you believe that we even exchanged a few words? And yet, appearance wise, there was only a man-sized blur in front of my eyes. I could use general words to describe him and to do that I had to strain my memory so hard, that my head hurt. Tell me, is it normal?"

"Under the circumstances I dare say that we should redefine the word normal."

"I agree. You know…" she stumbles over the pause.

She looks and sounds like a personification of sorrow and Charles aches to lean closer and take her hand, to show her his support, however trifle it can be, but he sits still. For she looks the type to reject excessive sympathy: beaten by life, but standing on her own, determined.

"I have lost my eyesight all of the sudden. In two weeks' time after I've seen them and Talia wrote that she was done with her life."

"Good god," gasps Charles – he didn't expect this.

"It was painless and abrupt. Like someone stole the light once and for all and I was left wandering in the dark for the rest of my life. Please, don't make fun of me, but, I felt, I've always thought, that he did it. I don't know how," she shakes her head again, quickly. "Who can he be that I had to pay such price for looking at him?"

.

.

.

Back home, Charles puts all his compulsive energy into cleaning the house.

When every surface is properly dusted and vacuumed clean, and his kitchen and bathroom smell of apple detergent, he drops into the embrace of sofa, ready to work, with his notes and a black marker in hand.

This situation: all these disappearances, doublespeak and shady allusions, and now the murder on top of that. It is getting somewhere on the very edge of dangerous and bizarre.

He is fidgeting with the marker, whilst sorting his fragmented notes into different piles. He has got a fair amount of snippets, which he must piece together if he wants to understand what was, is going on.

There are three different piles.

One is comprised of possible victims. Second contains his sketchy description of motives.

And the final one consists of one sheet of paper – it is about that man Irene mentioned.

He is a mystery, for he hasn't surfaced anywhere else. If he is responsible for Talia's disappearance he must have taken great care not to leave any trace. Finding him after eleven years would be next to impossible. There also exists another possibility: he is not guilty, and he took care to wipe his traces because of fear.

Taking next step, Charles writes _Frank Blake_ on a piece of paper.

He forces himself to think back, to picture yesterday's evening with clear head.

He is no expert; he can't pinpoint the angles of inflicted wounds, neither can he list the physical characteristics of the attacker by the weapon choice. But, it is safe to say that whoever did it was strong and capable. They used explicit means to get what they wanted. Someone, who represses aggression, but is prone to violent outbursts. Intensification that comes with suppression.

Multiple, messy stab wounds. Probably, inflicted in quick succession – is it all about frustration?

Personal? He would bet it is. Though, not too personal. Knew the victim well enough, although they weren't close.

Not the first murder? Yes, definitely.

Charles stops writing. The tip of marker is barely touching the sheet.

It looks so neat on paper: some fascinating abstract task, when, in reality, it means gore, disgusting smell of dead blood on his hands, his clothes.

He swallows a heavy sigh rising from within his chest.

Something else is shimmering on the periphery. A fragment of memory, which was too miniscule to be processed fully under duress.

There was a dark blur on the crime scene. Just around the corner.

He is twirling the marker between two fingers – providing himself with a tiny outlet for anxiety.

He probably saw the killer leaving. So what? A silhouette as seen from the back, for a fraction of a second, is nothing.

It's another thing, which puzzled Charles. How came nobody noticed a person in bloodstained clothes dashing the place? Or did they come prepared? Ditched the clothes and weapon somewhere and fled with the rest of panicked guests and staff? Diamondback is a hotel complex and a restaurant. That means, that the killer could be one of the residents. In that case, leaving was not necessary at all. They could just go back upstairs and pretend that nothing happened.

Charles picks up his phone and scrolls through contact list. He wishes to share his findings with someone other than indifferent Karami.

He blames a habit of his: his immediate desire for audience, which sometimes grows to overwhelming proportions. The ideas and insights need to be voiced, otherwise they might scatter, half-formed and helpless, or they might not integrate into real life experiences.

When his phone screen is displaying the name of Erik Lehnsherr, Charles stops himself with an effort.

At some point, he might even call.

But, not today.

.

.

.

Office hours are over.

In the quiet that follows, Charles opens the window to air the room. Weather turned blissfully balmy again. Coat seems a bit of overkill today.

The sky is a deep, vibrant blue. He looks north, along the large University Park and the roads cutting through it. Campus buildings are rising among the trees here and there. Students are strolling below: some are in a hurry, some are walking idly, some are fooling around with exuberance which comes along with youthfulness.

Down below, there are girls who avoided Jubilee's fate, whose pictures will never appear on missing person posters, who will never be swallowed by an anonymous evil, creeping too close by.

As the room gets gradually cooler, he can't shake the sensation that he is being watched. He gazes down, contemplating it, wondering what caused such feeling. It defies rational reasoning and is probably a lingering side effect of recent events.

The door hinges whine and Charles quickly turns around, clasping the edge of the windowsill.

"Professor Xavier?" Worthington pushes the door open. "Have you got a minute?"

Charles frowned, recalling seeing the young man with Moira. The detective from the privileged family, if Jean's words are true; he is the one who hasn't produced a nice first impression.

"Yes, please, come in. What brought you here today?"

"Work," he surveyed Charles office, looking somewhat distracted. "I worry about the case. It might be dismissed soon."

"I see. Although, despite my sincere wish to help you, I don't understand how I can do it," retorts Charles, not bothering to prolong this conversation.

He might still be new here, he thought to himself, but he is pretty sure that police officers, as a rule, don't drop in, hungry for a random talk.

"I don't think so. You mentioned a research on suicide rates earlier," Worthington says smoothly, watching Charles closely as though waiting for signs of capitulation. "In my opinion, your expertise will help our team to make progress."

"This is quite an attitude change," Charles didn't mean to sound accusatory, but did nonetheless. "I did mention it regarding a different case. If I wasn't sternly warned against interfering by your boss – "

"Ah, Lehnsherr doesn't know about it. It's only my call, a personal request," he went on. "In-depth profiling will benefit us. Someone has to try changing the tactics if nothing's working."

Charles leans back against the windowsill, hesitating, as he is considering a new opportunity. He has half a mind to inquire Worthington why he knows what exactly Charles said during his witness interview. Also, right now he is not very fond of idea to antagonise Lehnsherr, who has come to incite a fair amount of conflicting feelings.

"I'll think about it, though I can't promise you anything," Charles said finally.

If he wasn't observing Worthington carefully, he might have missed that – how the other man tucked in his fists. To Worthington's credit, his face remained almost perfectly impassive.

"Fine," he nods and then presses. "This is very important for our community."

"To prevent this from happening again?"

Worthington stares, as though Charles' question is beside the point.

"Of course."

.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

.

.

.

.

Charles finds himself in the university library again. Disconcertingly hungry, he is sitting at the desk in the far corner in a company of six open books and his notebook. After a sideways glance at the dark windows he stops reading to check his watch. It displays twenty to eight. Since the place closes at eight he still has some time.

Soft steps and hushed voices and occasional rustling of pages are mixing confusedly, accentuating the quiet.

In the row to his left, out of his field of vision, someone is pushing the chair out of the way. It emits a wee bit distressing wail, which makes his stomach clench.

"Sorry," Jean lifts up the chair, quickly realizing her mistake. "I've forgotten how slidable this parquetry is."

"It is rather polished, unfortunately," Charles rumbles as he gazes up from the book to take a good look at her.

"How are you doing?" she takes a seat opposite him and leans forward, putting folded arms on the table.

There is no one in this section: other visitors are gathered closer to the doors. Behind Charles' back there are shady stacks of books, perfectly serene and deserted at this time of the day.

Jean's eyes flicker to his books, glinting in a suspicious fashion.

"I'm quite well, considering… As I told you before, it was just a minor ailment. I'm actually surprised that it vanished without a trace over the weekend, seeing that it was some terrible, terrible weekend."

"Yeah, I heard," she takes in a small breath.

"And you? How have you been?"

"Good, thanks. That jinx – "

"Sorry? What?"

As though wrapped in thick cloth, Charles' head feels substantially full at the moment. Every part of him is actually yearning for something fulfilling, which is why comprehension is slower to come.

"Teeth," Jean whispers conspiratorially, focusing on his face.

"Oh, them. Right. What about them?"

To be totally candid, the origin of teeth was not high on his list of priorities.

"It appears, they were not meant for you. I did a little search on my own, and, you won't believe it, Professor," Jean seems very pale all of the sudden. When she goes on her voice rises an octave. "I already knew that something wasn't right. It was a persistent nagging, a feeling that was telling me that I missed something. So I decided to look up the name in the registry. It was Dr. Rogers. He occupied your office before you. He was sacked before the term began. And soon after that he suffered a massive stroke he never recovered from."

Charles practically feels her projected fear washing over him, rendering him momentarily speechless. Her panic takes roots in dark curiosity, but, unlike his brand of morbid interest, hers is bearing distinctively sharper quality.

"Listen, Jean. I apologise for misleading you, but I do believe that you shouldn't be involved. This mess is so much bigger than I have thought."

"Wait a minute. Now you don't want me involved?" she repeats, disbelieving.

"It's a tad too late for that. I don't want you to be involved further, though."

"What about this man? Dr. Rogers? There's a possibility that his death occurred, well, due to the curse."

Words just tumble past his lips, whilst he is voicing his neat objections.

"After being subjected to an extremely stressful resignation? And how old was he? Let me guess: in his fifties, sixties, or older, perhaps? Any medical history? People tend to be less than absolutely healthy at that age. Add here a bad habit or two and the risk of the stroke skyrockets. Besides, it's one of the leading causes of death in the country."

"He was sixty two."

"So, natural cause is plausible whereas unnatural, here I mean "curse", isn't."

"Hold on, please. Though, the statistical chance of curse affecting him is minimal, it's not completely negligible," she quips with unexpected tenacity and tilts her chin up. "You don't know these people like I do. They, uh, they tend to think in tremendously outdated ways. I think, what seems like superstitious theatrics to you, might be very real for them."

"You slay me. I don't undermine the power of self-deception or nocebo effect, for that matter," protests Charles gently, quite taken aback by her reasoning.

"If they possess a fraction of idea that the curse might work, it will work. It just will. Their minds are wired like that."

"Okay. Suppose you are right about him being subjected to such form of threat. To follow your line of thought, hypothetically, I'd have to presume that the person in question should be aware of," Charles sighs, "the curse. Otherwise, it won't act as a catalyst. But we don't know for sure whether or not this man was aware of someone's malicious intentions. And awareness is the key."

"In other words, I can't prove it to you."

"You, Jean," Charles runs his fingers through his hair, tugging just slightly.

It stings to realise that what he wants Jean to do is not that different from what Lehnsherr wants him to do. Or, rather, doesn't want him doing anymore.

Charles has grown to feel some measure of affection for her, he knows that much. And like he was told, time and again, his affection comes with a great deal of patronising. Only now the meaning of those words dawns on him and the pill is very bitter to swallow.

"And I've been asking around about Jubilation," Jean offers meanwhile, standing up, "but nothing new came up. I've got an impression that she didn't make any friends, which is sort of strange, because she seemed rather outgoing."

"Jean," Charles stands up as well, "I'm hoping against hope that you'll forgive me."

"I just need to process this," she says and then she is gone.  
.

.

.

.

Charles, pressing a phone to his ear, lets out a frustrated sigh when he can't stick a key in ignition after the first try. Any resistance to the idea of sharing with police is subsumed by understanding that he might need help.

He knows right away, that out of all policemen, he will obviously choose Lehnsherr; because he seems competent and independent-minded – a delightful mix in an individual, if you put aside his unapologetic tendency to verbal and, very probably, physical abuse.

Lehnsherr promptly picks up after the second ring.

"Xavier, I'm busy. Let me call you back in an hour."

Charles, who has been bracing himself for this conversation all the way to the spot where he parked his car, feels badly cheated.

"I'm finally having a long-awaited dinner in an hour," he can't stop himself from pointing out. "And since you already know where I live you might as well come round."

"Deal," says Lehnsherr immediately.

"Do you favor classic Italian?"

"It's your treat, so of course I do," he replies and Charles hears a smile in his voice.

Maybe, it's for the best, Charles decides. A cynical conversation partner is exactly what he needs tonight.

As he is sorting out the pre-ordered food on the kitchen table, his neighbour arrives: garage door is whooshed up and footsteps disturb the gravel.

Charles shuts the window to keep the outdoor noises out and tilts his head to the side, observing the arrangement of plates and cutlery, until he realises what is missing and goes upstairs to search his closet for linen napkins. He had neither time nor need to unpack them so far.

Knocking breaks the silence not a moment too soon, whilst he is finalising his table arrangements.

Lehnsherr has a paper bag pressed to his chest – two wine tops are peeking out of its confines and the sight of him lets Charles quit hold of some residual tension, he has been harbouring all evening.

"Red and white," says Lehnsherr, passing him the bag, "instead of making a choice."

"Here I'm supposed to say "you shouldn't have" but I'll skip that. Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he inclines his head just a fraction and sweeps his eyes around the interior of the house, while Charles is putting away his jacket.

"This way," Charles nods to his right. "Food's in the kitchen."

By the time they sit down at the table Charles is savagely hungry, which is why he digs in with honest enthusiasm, albeit not forgoing basic etiquette. After a satisfyingly savory bowl of soup he feels more or less alive.

"I was wondering, really," hums Lehnsherr, taking a sip. "What prompted you to invite me to dinner?"

"That was prompted by a combination of intuition, impulse and some fraction of logical reasoning, which, in hindsight, has always led me into trouble," confesses Charles. "On the other hand, though, a properly balanced meal does wonders to our excitatory and inhibitory neurotransmitters. In other words, food, if chosen wisely, makes our moods better by affecting our brain chemistry."

"It mellows our attitudes, you mean?"

"Something like that."

"You realise, Professor, that it works both ways."

Smiling, Charles shrugs with one shoulder so as to project a fair amount of ease. With any luck, it will help him to make a friend tonight.

In his turn, Lehnsherr puts on a mask of civil amusement, and though it's not of the flattering kind, Charles is sure that he is on the right track.

"You're quite different," Lehnsherr reaches for the bowl of vegetable salad and Charles hands it to him.

"The study of my profile turned out fruitless, I wager?"

This is the part where Charles either gets it right or he doesn't get it at all.

"What profile do you mean?" Lehnsherr sounds even more amused.

"Habits, likes, dislikes, schedule, income, family and etcetera. For the sake of professional ethics, I do hope that supervision was unavailable. As I was one of the suspects in a missing person's case, and with a shaky alibi, like your colleague had smartly pointed out, I should have one."

"You think we were regarding you as a suspect?"

"Very likely. The initial suspect, soon eliminated from the list, I guess. More wine?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Though, I admit my lifestyle has changed drastically since I moved here. I used to pursue things which, rather ironically, I don't consider important today," Charles says flippantly.

"Any reason for such change?"

"Family matters."

Seeing that Charles has his undivided attention now, he basks in it, if only a bit, for it's a thrill he hasn't experienced in a while.

"On my part, this is a gamble, Erik," Charles tastes the name on his tongue, and absently thinks that the potent undertone of his name actually adds up to Lehnsherr's image nicely. "Needless to say, you must know more about me than I do about you, but you still want me to part with even more information. Did you want me to tell you what I know? And I can answer that yes, I do know, now, that something terrible is happening here, in this town, and when I think why no one paid any attention to the series of obviously interconnected tragic events throughout years, I must say, I suspect a foul play. Talia Wagner, Gloria Brickman, Justine Chase, and now Jubilation Lee have gone missing in the same fashion. It's not really in the plain sight, but if you're looking for clues, you can find them. Am I the only person who tried looking?"

"No, you aren't the only one," Lehnsherr puts his glass down on the table, frowning at the red circle spreading on the napkin.

There's a tense edge to his voice Charles is no stranger to.

"Why? I wanted you not to be involved. Was I not making myself clear?"

"As a matter of fact, you weren't. Not to me, anyway. I was questioning your tactics from the start. What did you mean – I'm not the only one?"

"If I tell you, it never leaves this room, alright?" he peers into Charles' eyes and after a couple of seconds seems satisfied by what he sees.

"Alright."

"Now, listen, Charles," he accentuates Charles' name and at that Charles feels a chill. "You've got these names right and you're going to keep silent about them, because this will eventually end badly: for you, for me, for any unsuspecting person…"

"I can't," protests Charles, "How do you expect me to _unsee_ this?"

"Somehow."

"You're not from here. You're an outsider, like me," as it dawns on Charles he, being in a rush, thinks too fast and he physically can't stop words and half-formed thoughts from spilling. "You've got no connections. Why did you move here, then? And, yes, there have been plenty of crucial resignations lately. The names didn't take you by surprise. Oh, you must be — "

"My transfer was made possible with the help of Combined Operations Division, which is a new branch of national defence forces. If you've been following the news, you should know. You may say that we're filling in the gaps police and, sometimes, snoops are unable to fill. Will it be enough for you to stress the gravity of our situation?"

"I still don't know what our situation is, and, in my experience, nothing harms worse than those neglected communication gaps. I can help. After my conversation with miss Adler — "

"You talked to Irene Adler? The Irene Adler? Wagner case? When?"

"Yesterday," admits Charles, wary of the other's extreme reaction.

"That's it," Lehnsherr lays both hands flat on the table and stares at Charles, like he would at the serial killer.

"You've succeeded in making it radically complicated."

"So?"

"If they realise that you're walking around gathering information, they will not let you go on. And that's putting it mildly."

"Of course. They, whoever they might be, are entitled to their own agenda. But, I have a question. Why the pronoun?"

"Because, I and my superiors suspect that many are involved. It's not a one-psycho's crusade."

Across from him, Lehnsherr leans back in his chair, still eyeing Charles thoughtfully. His half full glass of red remains neglected.

Whilst Charles is on the lookout for visual clues, debating with himself, for he's unintentionally made the other's work harder, he sees what he had expected to see. He identifies that emotional cocktail one devours when caught in the undertow of frustration. Perhaps, Lehnsherr will let go of his understandable and fairly justified anger later, because Charles hopes that for now, he is treating their exchange like negotiations.

"You want to help? Okay. But I don't want any independent action from you. No more. This is my responsibility and also this is not civilian business."

Opting to stay mute, in order to restore peace, Charles responds with a tacit nod. He expects this to be the end of discussion, and he secretly thinks that it went rather well.

"Let's move this to my place," Lehnsherr offers suddenly.

"Some other time? There is a pile of papers in my bag, which is not going to grade itself."

"Granted," Lehnsherr says mildly and gets up, and, blessed by a minute touch of serendipity, Charles knows that this is it: the only offer he will be getting.

"Please, hold on. I'm coming. I'm sure I can manage two sleepless nights in a row."

.

.

.

.

When on the porch, Charles finally breaks a silence spell, which has effectively sewn his mouth shut.

"I can't believe it," he admits quietly, while turning to face Lehnsherr and his satisfied smirk.

Fuelled by Charles' bewilderment, Lehnsherr grins, outstandingly shameless, and pulls open the red door for him.

"Be welcome, oh, great detective."

They are neighbours, for goodness's sake. Neighbours.

The kitchen is a mirrored image of Charles': its windows are facing the patch of lawn and the road. Its furniture is a lot more modern than his own, though. The refrigerator has a lone picture stuck to it. Out of all things it depicts a deserted sandy beach: palms, sun and turquoise sea would make a generic postcard, but that's not the case. By any stretch of imagination, this is not the picture taken by a professional as its angle is sloppy and immature.

Charles' attention shifts back to Lehnsherr returning with a laptop, which gives a faint ping before booting and it takes so much time to get it started that Charles can only marvel at the complexity of encryption.

"Despite my best intentions, that's how we are going to proceed: I'll show everything I've got. These files can't be copied or otherwise shared," he warns.

"Fair enough."

"Since you've got no clearance —"

"I understand. I don't wish to put you in a compromising position."

"I need the why and the how, most of all. I also need tangibles: burial sites, bodies and more, if possible."

"I can help with the former. Goodness," Charles clicks on the folder Lehnsherr points to and leans closer, shocked. "These folders? Are they all victims?"

There are dozens of them on the screen, each bearing a name and a surname. Charles' eyes zoom in on Talia Wagner and he opens her folder.

"That Wagner case was the actual case, but you'll find out that many others weren't. There were the excluded no one cared to report: like homeless or socially disadvantaged children. Just gone. Took place long before the surveillance boom, so the traces are vague at best. Some of them may actually appear unrelated for all we know."

"When did these disappearances start?"

"It's an opaque area. Our analytics aren't sure. Give or take a few decades around the beginning of the previous century. Here, have a look at this," ignoring Charles' stunned glance, Lehnsherr taps on the file, "this is the detective, who had been assigned to Wagner case."

The picture of the pale man with empty eyes and slacked face shows him wearing plain clothes Charles recognizes that instant. He scans the ten-year old page, which reveals the diagnoses upon admission.

 _The patient reported insistent visual and auditory hallucinations. The most persistent being that of the monster: human in shape, with the legs, horns and fur of a goat, that lures people out and scares them hard enough to force them to kill themselves. Symptoms occur throughout the day in the absence of an external stimulus and sensory perceptions are badly affected…_

"What do you think?"

"Just a moment, please," Charles scrolls through psychiatric history, holding his breath. "Hm, no self-harm. I'd label it an atypical schizophrenia, though, I must admit it is unlike anything I have seen or, well, read about. Is he still here, at the Grey Yard?"

"Yes, his hospitalization was perfectly timed. And no," Lehnsherr puts a hand right on his shoulder, just when Charles turns to ask another question. "Don't even think of interviewing him or any hospital staff regarding him. Will be inadmissible, anyway."

"They all turn out inadmissible sooner or later," Charles says slowly, quieter than intended.

"I can't argue with that."

Sullen, he thinks back to Blake's blood on his shaky hands, thinks about Irene, adds up the young detective confined to ward and conscienceless medicated haze, limited to reliving fearsome visions each and every single day.

"How could you think of doing it on your own? Don't you have any back up?" marvels Charles aloud.

"There is someone in the department, who is aware of my assignment. At this stage he helps me by not interfering, mostly."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go on. But it's the last one tonight."

"To be on the safe side, is your investigation authorised? Are you even operating under your real name?"

"That's a waste of the question. If you need to know, I'm not exactly working undercover, but I do have an extra assignment and extensive authority."

With that Lehnsherr takes his hand off Charles, leaving a warm hand imprint behind.

"I can't tell you anything else."

"I think, you should know," says Charles after a pregnant pause, "Worthington approached me today, in my office. Said he was thinking of changing the tactics."

What happened today feels like it happened ages ago — some startling twist in time perception, which prefers haunting Charles when he is at his busiest.

"That brat has been trying to screw me from the start," Lehnsherr waves it off. "Probably thinks I'm in for the promotion. Though, I hand it to him: he's got the guts."

"I would have declined anyway."

"And why would you?" Lehnsherr seems genuinely curious.

"Because I've come to an unnerving conclusion that local police might be involved in covering up these crimes."

"No one important went missing. Maybe that's why."

"Please, don't. Don't say that," Charles protests against cruel words and against dread hanging in the air like the last statement.

Before Charles gets fully aware of what he's just said, Lehnsherr recognizes his unvoiced plea very well, because that apprehensive look he gives him can't be faked.

.

.

.

.

He notices it when he is passing by their shared letterbox early in the morning. Something is scrabbled on the side of the box facing his gate. Despite his best reservations, Charles feels a prick of wary hesitation. Upon peering closer he sees a set of two concentric semi-circles facing opposite directions, separated by a neat vertical line. Whoever did this probably used a black marker. His gaze lingers on the scribbling. It might be nothing. It's not a big deal, tells himself Charles. It's borderline silly, if anything. But then, he thinks back to some of his patients, to plenty of people who fill their lives with symbols which mean a world for them, people, who are unconditionally prepared to render their lives for similar scribbles.

Charles takes out his phone and snaps a picture. And stops thinking about it altogether until lunchtime, when the promise of hot cup of coffee makes him go down to staffroom.

On the way there he suddenly recalls that he's read about those semicircles before. Back then he was toying with the model of magical thinking and some of it really sunk in. After memorable conversation with Moira he's read quite a few articles, which looked into the concept of symbolism. In antique tradition, semicircles represented a human soul, and were supposed to reproduce the symbol inscribed in… As he enters the staffroom, it is almost empty save for a couple of people by the coffee maker. The phrase is just there, on the very edge, but it filters like water through sand and when he thinks that he's almost got it, he gets interrupted.

"Charles," Marcy Stryker calls his name.

"I was hoping to intercept you somewhere," she leaves her armchair. "I'm so glad we met."

When she comes closer, she leans in to peck him on the cheek and Charles is suddenly reminded of his mother, which is not a very welcome memory, to be honest.

"I didn't expect to have left a positive impression, ma'am," responds Charles, smiling, as Marcy's face morphs into a responding smile too. "I'm sorry you had to go through all of terrible things that night."

"I imagine, you've had it worse with the police and all that," she sighs morosely, fiddling with the snap buckle on her purse.

Slight tremor didn't go unnoticed.

"Well, Charles, we're having a dinner this Friday. William and I would like you to come to our place. He invites people from work every time, so it's not going to be exceptionally exquisite," she gives him a knowing half-smile, "but it's bearable. And I can't wait to introduce you to my friends."

"I honestly don't know whether I'll manage. I'm really busy."

"Are you?"

She almost pouts at him, and if there is something more bizarre than his dean's wife making a pass at him under scrutiny of his colleagues, who are busy shamelessly eavesdropping, Charles can't think of anything at the moment.

"Could you promise me to think of it, at least?" she pleads.

"Yes," Charles gets out, because, goodness, he didn't expect her to get so upset.

"Ah, I almost forgot. You can take your significant other. Having someone around is very important for one's well-being."

.

.

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

.

.

.

.

It seems that light bulb in Erik's kitchen has declared a war on Charles' retinas and his hearing. It is buzzing on and on. The sound is low, but goodness, it's drilling a hole in his skull. Circles of light are stuck to the back of his burning eyelids. Charles licks his lips and goes on.

"Soon after I went through the list you've showed me, it had confirmed my suspicions. I initially included a male student in the list of my own, but then reconsidered. Basically, their preferred choice is a female. It's almost archetypical, I'd say. A young adult or teen, in other words, she, who has already hit puberty… exhibits regressive social behaviour around the time of disappearance, emotionally liable, submissive, abusive or neglecting parents, from lower to middle strata and," Charles makes a sweeping gesture at the fridge, which is now transformed into a whiteboard with printed pictures stuck to it, "they are obviously very pretty."

Headache starts knocking from inside as though drilling wasn't enough.

"You have the eye for pretty, don't you?" Erik draws obscenely, with a disdainful twist to his thin mouth.

"Excuse me?" Charles reels back, stung.

"Yes," Erik looks up from his notes. "I see your point and I agree."

"Didn't you just say —"

It's now Erik's turn to regard him with a frown.

"Charles, since you've started your lecture I hadn't said a word. You may sit down, by the way."

"But… Okay, um, never mind," he stops in his tracks and clasps the back of steel chair, trying to herd his thoughts. "The time of each disappearance is very significant for perpetrators. That and the choice of victims led me to believe that it might have certain ceremonial or symbolic significance. The end of October? Any ideas? Harvesting, perhaps?"

"A sacrifice?"

"Or a tribute of sorts. You see, there is a rational thought behind this. These are the children you lure with honey: with promise of salvation and love. You make them believe that their "new" life will be completely different, but in order to show that they're ready they have to be prepared to burn all bridges. Maybe, suicide notes were just goodbyes, which were interpreted in the wrong way. Or, possibly, intentionally misinterpreted."

"How would you describe the mastermind. Any thoughts?" Erik asks.

"A man. Narcissistic, superficially charming, act-focused. Well off."

"Sexually motivated?"

"Not sure yet."

"Is it true? Can psychopaths bond with people very rapidly?"

"If they are intelligent enough, yeah, they can assess your value and personality after observing you," here Charles perks up. "Yes, Erik, thank you! That's how they find them. By observing them first. It is well planned and well executed, and if something does go wrong, like in Wagner's case, when an outsider happens to ask too many questions, it is dealt with. Do you think Blake knew something happened to his girlfriend?"

"Yeah, Blake's had plenty of time for thinking it over," Erik stands to pour himself coffee. "And what happened at the hotel was definitely not a gentlemen brawl. That was some neat work. I took a look at the report: fire exit in sight, no cameras in the adjacent corridor. And, also, any person would bleed out in a matter of minutes after sustaining those injuries. A severely bruised trachea suggests that he was silenced with a direct blow to a throat, so he wasn't able to make a sound."

Charles nearly gags at the description, because visuals are still fresh in his mind, but he doesn't want to forget. This memory, he decides, is a good reminder why he is doing this.

"Charles, you alright?" Erik nods to the coffee maker. "Want some?"

"I just," Charles, lost in thoughts, blinks to chase away persistent black dots, "I haven't been sleeping well."

"Then, go. Or would you like me to walk you to your door?"

Scowling slightly, Charles picks up his folder.

"I think we should consider making the door in the wall."

"Maybe, later," snorts Erik. "Wait, you've forgotten your phone."

Sure, his phone is on the table, next to his empty cup. He pockets it and when he does he recalls something.

"I think I heard you talking to a woman once," says Charles slowly.

"We don't do talking lately. We're bone-picking," Erik looks down at his steaming cup as if trying to glimpse an advice in it.

"Your wife?" suddenly realizes Charles and then wants to slap himself. "Sorry, that's not my business."

As he is putting on his coat in the corridor, he sees his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. It twists in a grotesque fashion, so that his face gets split by mirror distortion, which, he swears, wasn't there before.

"I can look into the rest of it tomorrow after work," he promises Erik, who is watching him attentively, still cradling his cup.

"Take your time. If it is not one family like we thought, but a ring or an entire cult, we don't need to hurry. Something tells me they aren't going anywhere."

"It is premature to state this, but you seem to be right," Charles grabs door handle, but Erik's next words glue him to the spot.

"What if this voodoo is real? Remember what happened to Adler?"

"That can be explained as well," a tad jarred by Erik's hesitation, Charles, however, pauses to clarify it patiently. "Sudden blindness is not so sudden, as a rule. On the contrary, blurring and shadowing may occur before vision loss, but many just disregard it. Irene didn't see his face because her eyes were already failing her. Don't forget that she was young and scared, and also her best friend vanished recently. And people, when feeling vulnerable, seek simple answers. Often in wrong places. There comes supernatural."

.

.

.

.  
Even brushing his teeth before bed is a tremendously tiring chore. He turns off the tap and the last frustrating thing he recalls before falling asleep — he hasn't switched off bathroom lights.

Deep in dream, he senses an alien presence in his room. He is not really sure whether he is drifting in and out of sleep or awake, but he is sure that he isn't supposed to move. He knows that the person is standing by the window, and thus he feels the shift in the air when they take a step forward to hover over him. When the person bends to touch him, Charles stops breathing. The cold fingers tug away at the crunched collar, exposing his neck. Charles feels like chocking in fear as the touch lingers, pressing a little.

When he wakes up with the alarm clock, crappy is the only word fit to encompass his state. His entire body is aching as though he's been working out the day before and sleep didn't make a lot of difference.

Having switched on a kettle, Charles can't process where tea is. It takes him a very long minute, which is spent staring out of the window at greying dawn.

No stranger to sleep paralysis, he had never experienced such a vivid one. He stopped having them when he turned seventeen.

Bugger.

Whilst rubbing some life into his face, he makes up his mind and goes to check the lock on the door. It makes total sense to search through the house, or so he is telling himself, that's why he starts by checking windows. Then takes a peek into a utility room and, feeling a bit silly, pushes a mop under the bed.

The mirror in the bathroom is unapologetically honest. Dark circles under Charles' eyes don't worry him much at the moment. He carefully tilts his head back and examines his neck. It is sore like the rest of his body, though, thankfully, unmarked.

"Okay, stop being ridiculous," he chastises himself.

By accident, he runs into Moira at the parking lot. It looks like he isn't the only one, who has had a rough night. Worry lines on her forehead get sharper as she folds her arms, staring at something in the boot of her car.

While Charles is running late, he can't help stopping by. Apparently, she was regarding two sizeable boxes wrapped with duct tape, which are too large to be carried by one person.

"Thanks, I'll be in your debt," she shuts the boot with an exasperated groan. "They aren't very heavy."

"What's in here?" Charles strains to shift it, badly surprised at the sudden bout of fatigue flooding him.

"Bones. For taphonomy installation."

"Well, I looked forward to starting my morning with carrying dead. Are they human?"

"Yeah," she manoeuvres her box in order to free one arm, "it's insane. It rocks my faith in science and the notion of sharing. I couldn't get the shipping. I'm borrowing them from our Natural History Museum only because my husband is their major contributor. It's not like I'm going to use them for purposes other than intended."

"I must say, you have the most fascinating job."

After shooting him a curios look, she huffs a small laugh, nodding in the direction of the lane leading to the faculty of Natural Science.

"This way. Did it go well last Saturday?"

"I'm afraid, interviewing me wasn't very helpful. I didn't see anyone or anything that might help the police."

"Good for you. That you didn't see anyone," she paused to shift her grip on the box. "Civil duty seems like a fair concept until it gets in the way of normal life. Warren, my arguably efficient step son, has changed so much since he's began working with the police. Sometimes, he appears a totally different person. I now feel reassured, that I was through with a dream of applying to police academy by the time I graduated from secondary school."

"Certain experiences can do that to you," he nods, merely sidestepping the puddle.

"How's your patient doing?"

Charles stalls time by shaking his head, frantically trying to remember what exactly she was talking about.

"Sadly, we didn't manage to advance far," he smiles, if only faintly, willing to redirect the conversation, when it strikes him. "Ah, it almost skipped my mind. Do you, by chance, recall the symbol consisting of two semicircles and a vertical line?"

"Sure I do. It's really common."

Moira doesn't comment on his abrupt change of topic. A raised eyebrow is the sole indicator of her incredulity. She bends to deposit her box on the stair, the first of many running up to the open faculty doors.

"Thank you, Charles. My students should come along and take it from here. At least, it's in their best interests."

"Common as in universal?"

Aware of her eyes on him, Charles cautiously places his box next to hers, whilst his mind is trying to make a connection.

"That's heresy," she chuckles and startles him. "If you would look up. This is a core element of our town's emblem."

Moira then points to the brass plate by the faculty door.

"And you can see it in our university's emblem as well. This element is on every historic landmark there is. I assume people don't notice it because they see it so often."

She continues telling something, but Charles can't focus on her words. They seem to be spoken from a distance. His eyes are trained on the small replica of university emblem, which resembles a seal with demi-gryphon spreading its wings over the top. Inside this seal there are two semicircles facing opposite, divided by a thin vertical line — a court sword splitting the image in half.

.

.

.

.  
When Charles turns the corner he immediately gets confronted by the worrying sight of someone fondling his letterbox.

From this distance, Charles can't see what exactly they are doing, so he quickens his pace, quite determined to catch the offender in the act. However, the person swivels round before he is close enough. An alarmed face, he then glimpses, reveals a boy with a wild mop of dark hair, who takes one look at him and breaks into running.

Charles raises his voice to utter the most unpedagogical thing, but he is beyond exhausted, therefore running is out of question.

"Hey, don't run, please! I'll pay you!"

The boy, however, comes to a stop and Charles, secretly relieved, stops too, so as not to scare him off.

"I'm serious. If you come back and tell me what you've been doing, money's yours."

"How much?" comes a matter-of-fact question.

"Just a minute," he hurriedly reaches for his wallet, praying that he didn't spend all cash.

It should be disturbing, that he feels vaguely proud of himself when he calls out an amount, which satisfies the boy. Charles then sets the banknote down on the letterbox and takes a few steps back.

"Frank gave me this address, like, a week ago," scoffs the boy upon grabbing the money swiftly, avoiding looking Charles in the eyes.

"Frank Blake? Wait, what's your name?" he asks, and then shakes his head in disbelief, because his anonymous source has already turned his back on him, apparently unbothered.

In the fading sunlight, the street is already empty, as usual, and he is grateful, for this once it works in his favour. As he inhales cool air, his head spins slightly and he reaches out, steadies himself with a hand on the letterbox. The world around him expands for a fraction of second. He absolutely has no time to be taken ill again, thinks Charles morosely.

As expected, among the pile of junk mail he discovers a sheet of paper, with worn corners, folded in four. After placing it on his kitchen table, he dials Erik. It goes to voicemail twice, before he gives up and leaves a message.

"I have discovered something, which might be interesting. I think, you should come and see for yourself."

It's a very exuberant torture: he keeps looking at the innocent piece of paper, while drinking water. In his mind, he has already laid it open and seen the contents. When he turns his head away from temptation, his gaze falls on Frank Blake standing in the doorway. Visible patches of his skin have turned a discoloured green-blue. There is an ugly, black blotted shape on his throat. His dull, whitish eyes have sunk in as decay laid claim on his flesh.

This is not right, not right.

In the wake of this thought, Charles glances down, conflicted.

Maybe he is this close to snapping, after all. What day is it? Tuesday? No, it's already Thursday. All restless nights, nightmares and stretched-out nerves are building up, he reasons. It's coming round the bend.

Resolved, he picks up a knife and carefully unfolds the corners of Blake's note. He's chosen not a very convenient tool for the task, but it works and soon he is done.

It's a patch of land. Probably, a screenshot from Google Maps. The excitement shimmering inside him blooms out of proportions. What great news! Now, they can finally stop wondering in the dark.

He did remember that Erik asked him not to act on his own. But, frankly speaking, unfolding the note could barely count for independent action. He could have disposed of it anyway, if he hadn't met that boy, who was lurking around. To tell the truth, stuffing such thing in someone's letterbox wasn't Blake's wisest decision.

After texting Erik, for good measure, he goes upstairs, peeling off his sweater on the way there. His eyelids are fluttering and his head feels heavy like a rock. When he wanders in the bathroom, he begins searching through a medicine cabinet. There was something he could take for headache, at least. Because he suddenly can't remember the medicine's name he has to pause and think hard. Such simple task turns extremely difficult. He loses a perception of time, in a way. Happy to have found the right bottle, he swallows two pills and chases them with tap water.

As Charles lays his hand on the light switch, he stops and his heart stops too. He never switched them off the other night, but when he woke up this morning they were off. That sharp and cruel fear from his nightmare twists in his gut again.

.

.

.

.  
Struggling to see straight, he stumbles into his living room. The blackness is creeping in around the edges of his vision. He barely makes it through the door. He can't think.

The floor lurches beneath his feet and to restore his balance he tries to take hold of something, anything. His back collides with something hard. Ah, the bookcase, of course.

Glass shatters. Something heavy thumps down.

The photograph, the one encased in glass frame, is now on the carpet. He can't remember people who are in it. They are faceless blurs. It's his fault.

When he attempts to pick it up, his knees give out and he sags down. What time is it? How long has it been?

He has to clean the glass, he thinks desperately. To collect all the pieces. Why can't he remember?

Charles tells his rebellious hand to twitch. His fingers feel so thick and heavy that to move them is next to impossible. Although, he does that, bit by bit, and when he finally grabs a shard of glass he feel victorious. Instantly, red swells up where his fingers come into contact with it, and he thinks — that's blood. And he also thinks, very, very slowly, that he can't feel a thing. Not a prick of pain from the cut. Nothing at all. Is it even supposed to hurt? Is it real?

Remember, he tries again, please, remember what you must do.

Write it down.

Write down what? With what? No pen in sight and he can tell he isn't getting up to look for any.

Through relentless fog inside his head there prowls an idea. So simple, really. He should have thought of it sooner.

When he pushes up the sleeve of his coat it pushes back. Charles tries on and on, until he catches it in the crook of his elbow. The shirt sleeve is much easier. He gets it terribly bloody though, because he is still clenching the shard of glass in his right. He can't let it get lost.

Now, he presses glass to his skin and drags it down, slashing an uneven vertical line. His eyes are closing. Letters in flesh, they are trickier than he had thought. It turns messy very fast and he can't discern what he's already written.

A bother.

The glass is slippery. The thought of dropping it before he finishes is scary.

"Charles? What the —!"

The loud footsteps. And then…

"Fuck!"

His wrists are clasped in a very tight grip and he is forced upright, so his world tilts and then continues swimming. Oh no. He didn't finish.

"Charles, come on! Look at me. Yeah, like that. Lord, your eyes…"

That is a familiar face. A familiar voice, he decides.

"You're coming with me, but I need to take care of this first."

At that Charles' mind wanders off. When it comes back he's lying on the sofa and his left arm is wrapped up in a towel: elbow to wrist. His right hand is free, so he lifts it up, with enormous effort, and then tugs at the end of the towel, desperate to pull it free. He needs to remember, damn it.

"Fuck, no!" exclaims someone from above and puts a pressure on his right hand. "Come on, Charles, listen to me. I'm watching you and if I see you doing something like that again, I'd have to restrain you. I don't want to. Are you sure you want that?"

Charles gazes up. He finds enough strength to shake his head. Just in case, he makes an effort to say something. Thus, he manages a harsh no.

"Okay. That settled, let's try to get you walking," the voice disappears, before coming back with brimming intensity. "Charles, you stay awake."

.

.

.

.

Charles isn't sure he really wakes up, because a significant part of him doesn't. It simply seems as if his eyes have been open for a while, but only now the world starts filtering in, in fractions: golden lamplight, a pillow under his head, Erik, watching him from the spot by the window. And pain. As though he's been through a rough up.

For now, Erik stays silent. He definitely notices Charles looking, but, for some reason, he opts to watch without speaking.

Utterly confused, Charles is just trying his best to get his bearings and understand why everything, especially his arm, is hurting and why his head feels nauseatingly empty.

"Do you now know who I am?" asks Erik finally.

"Erik Lehnsherr," Charles half rasps half whispers. "You, you're my secret neighbour. I think, you're getting divorced. You're very determined to hold onto some traumatic memories from your past. You may struggle with impulse or emotional control, though —"

"Enough, stop," Erik comes closer. "What day is it?"

This is the exact moment when Charles strains to reply and then stops, troubled.

"I have n-no idea. I was, yes, I was definitely at work. Wednesday, was it? No, Thursday," he tries.

He thinks, mutely, that panicking won't take him anywhere, but, apparently he's not in the state to banish all its vile sprouts.

"It's Saturday morning. You've been missing since Thursday night. Do you recall leaving me a voicemail?"

It's complicated. Does he?

"Erik, what happened to me? Why am I here? It's your bed, isn't it?"

"You tell me what happened. Fucking hell, Charles. I thought you were dead. Spent twenty four hours looking for you. And then, I come home to go through your things one more time, to look for clues, and you're slitting your wrists in your living room. You can't recognise me, so I assume that you're drugged out of your mind. The symptoms seemed to match. But then, you start talking to dead people. Rather expressively," that is followed by an emphasised stare.

"How long was I out?" he shoots a wary glance to his left arm — that explains pain and a bandage, at least.

"Five hours. I had to give you an injection. To help you calm down. Dragging you here was not a walk in the park, by the way. So tell me, please, what do I do with a patient like that?"

"I like how you abstract away from this situation," notes Charles quietly.

"Were you hallucinating? Or do you really think you are able to talk to people, who aren't there?" presses Erik, clearly determined to squeeze as much as possible from him. "Charles, did I do the right thing?"

"Yes, absolutely. That's just so weird. I need to think," he repeats. "Please, Erik. I need to think."

"If you're at risk of committing bodily harm or self-injury, I'd rather you were in the environment where professionals might take care of you."

"I'm not suicidal. But, I see, you're not very inclined to believe me."

"These past few days you've been acting differently. I don't know you too well, that's the given, but when I notice discrepancies I'm usually right."

"I told you why," Charles nods fervently, finding himself near tears and at the same time realising that Erik won't budge unless he presents him with a solid argument. "I had a dream about someone breaking into my house. Goodness," something does re-emerge from the depth, weak like a whisper. "Someone was in my house. Maybe, that's why I left?"

"When I found you, you've had your coat and shoes on. Nothing else. No phone, no keys. Just some bills in the right pocket."

"I know, wait. There should be something on the kitchen table," Charles' breathing turns ragged, despite his best efforts to remain calm. "Something important. Have a look, please."

"I'm not leaving you unsupervised," says Erik dryly.

Overwhelmed and extremely hyper-sensitive, Charles could almost read his thoughts: they are probably the same he would be having if he were to confront someone delirious, someone, who claimed to have experienced memory loss. A great many thoughts are revolving within his mind, but, right now, not a single one can truly explain what is going on.

.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

.

.

.

.

Out, in the street, the dawn is breaking through thin pale line above the trees. The sun is being born for the new and hopefully fine day.

Right now, Charles is absolutely blind to it, as wild ideas keep coming and going. For a long, too long moment he is seriously considering various painless methods to wake himself up.

Erik is not quite wrong, acting as he is now, thinks Charles then. For instance, it is impressive that he'd thought of fetching the blood test kit, which Charles happened to have at home. It went unspoken that Charles agreed to it, because, under the circumstances, truth was difficult and Charles, having thought better of it, was in no position to argue. And, besides, if Erik still hadn't called in an ambulance, he, probably, is not one hundred percent sure that Charles is… whatever he is. His doubt is Charles' chance. The chance to figure out what to do next.

"No, you keep that door open," says Erik just as he makes a move to swing the bathroom door shut.

This bathroom dilemma is just ludicrous, but he can't really protest, can he? Quickly going from embarrassed to rueful, Charles worries the inside of his lip, while pondering how to phrase it correctly.

"I could leave it ajar, if I must," he bargains, allowing just the right amount of compliance in his voice.

"And then, you will try killing yourself in my bathroom, this once. Charles, how on Earth I am supposed to watch you?" Erik leans on the wall, folding his arms.

"Look, I don't know how to reply to your question," Charles glances down, reflexively, at his bandaged forearm. It continues to throb, spreading tiny waves of pain. "I'm grateful, Erik. I'm really grateful for everything you've done for me, but —"

Something crashes just behind the wall. Though the sound is hushed, he and Erik exchange dubious, yet alarmed looks, because it has come from Charles' supposedly empty part of the house. Charles wonders whether his eyes are as round and startled as they seem to be. Erik, on the other hand, narrows his eyes and motions him to stay silent. He is visibly hesitating; he is considering his options — and by the way the lines on his face are getting more pronounced Charles can wager what troubles him.

"We can go and investigate together," offers Charles mildly, keeping his voice low.

"Unfortunately, that's what we'll do, it seems," mutters Erik and adds quietly still. "Stay back and, please, do what I say."

While following Erik through the yard and then inside, Charles tries not to breathe too loudly. The lights are out and dim natural glow is barely enough to prevent them from stumbling into furniture. It looks like everything is visible through a flimsy grey noise shroud. His eyes flicker to the kitchen door, which is half open. He is still confused out of his mind, but the remnants of memory appear to be there. Like faint flickers of light in the otherwise dark attic, they grant him nothing more than an outline, a feeling of memory, which used to be there.

As though pulled with an invisible thread, Charles sneaks through the gap and right into the kitchen. He takes a single look at the counter and realises that it's a mess: a water bottle is toppled over — its contents must have spilled on the floor; the cupboards and cabinets are open, the lids on jars are off. There's nothing on the table, though his memory claimed quite the opposite.

"Charles, will you stop testing my patience? What did I ask you to do?" Erik grabs his elbow, almost hissing into his ear, and Charles fails to jump out of his skin only because he suddenly feels like collapsing.

" _Who_ _do who you think you are, Charles. Look at your life, at your choices. You are dragging yourself down, in isolation," comes that voice._

 _The intonation then turns monotonous and the same voice asks him questions._

" _Do your past failures still worry you? How often do you make efforts to get the others laugh and smile? I'm just wondering what is your honest opinion of you? What prospects do you see for yourself?..."_

 _Charles looks into the eyes, which are shining with such intelligence and understanding, that any validity should go unquestioned._

" _I know what you're doing," his skin feels tight and thin at once, mind is no better._

" _Do you?" a smile. "Because, even if you do, it doesn't matter."_

Charles staggers back: thankfully, he's aware once again. His eyes dart past Erik in time to see the moving shadow through the gap in the door.

There is a goat skull staring back at Charles with nameless intentions. Greyness is clinging to it, merging with it so well, that a lone gasp is stuck in his throat. The skull disappears in a blink and then there's the unmistakable patter of feet on the porch.

Erik, bless him, sprints after the shadow very fast, but, when Charles peers in the window to track him, he already can't see the person Erik is chasing. This window is, by far, a poor observation point.

He exhales heavily, hoping to clear his head from remnants of numbing shock.

Oddly uncaring, Charles gingerly climbs the stairs and heads for the bathroom. When Erik returns some time later, slightly flushed, but not quite empty-handed, Charles is already almost done packing.

"He has ditched the mask," he notes absolutely unnecessary, zipping up a travel hand bag. Surprisingly enough, his voice carries none of the traces of fresh panic and anxiety thumping through his veins.

"Yeah, threw it in the bin, so I had to do some digging. I swear, he is frigging fast and he seems to know the area better than I do," breathes out Erik. "Charles, can you explain me what you're doing?"

He wishes he could do that.

"Back in the kitchen, I've had a vague flashback, which, at the moment, makes no sense. This is only an assumption, but I think that I was being drugged throughout these couple of days, thus mild cognitive impairment and memory loss. Perhaps, it started since Monday or Tuesday even. I've been feeling weird, and, overall, that makes sense, in hindsight. I also packed some toiletries, like toothpaste, in here. You should get them tested. And fetch a sample of bottled water from the kitchen, if possible," the twitch seizes his right hand and Charles shoves it in the pocket. "I didn't trash my house on my own, but I don't have the answers. I wager, they were looking for something. I have no idea what it is. If you know a reason why someone in the damn scary mask broke into my house, I'm all ears."

"Okay, okay."

Erik runs a hand down his face in what, such are Charles' hopes, is a display of relenting.

"What I'm asking for is some degree of understanding and trust. Is it too much?"

"I don't know yet," Erik snaps, but clearly regrets it as he settles on grabbing Charles' bag, and says, straining to keep his voice mild. "It's dangerous here. Let's go."

"Fine, Erik. Go where?"

"Not sure we can discuss this in here. Look around, meanwhile. Is anything amiss?"

"Everything is," sighs Charles, sweeping his eyes all over his bedroom.

.

.

.

It goes without saying that if they want to act they should act immediately.

Judging by Erik's words, he is not keen on going to police either. Indeed, he made a few phone calls and drove them to the glass-encased place downtown, where biology postdocs are rumoured to be changing the world. Apparently, there is someone who Erik knows, a lab assistant, who can be bullied into taking over forensics job and analysing both the bloodwork and the samples they obtained in Charles' house.

To keep himself alert, Charles chooses caffeine and a simple breakfast in a barely awakened cafe. From the window he can observe the entrance to Glirham Research Centre. That's not to say that he's very worried, but he is wired, which, given the odds, is understandable. He has to put as much faith in Erik as Erik in him and his claims.

A lot of hope is hanging on the outcome of his testing. If Charles' claims appear false, their deal will be off. It is wisely left unvoiced, but the weight of it is pressing heavily upon Charles' shoulders.

He opts to resist a tug of sleep by ordering another coffee. Because, honestly, what other means of composing himself he has got left?

When Erik crosses the street and finally, finally sits down across him at the small round table, Charles is capable of letting go some of gripping tension.

"Should be ready as soon as possible," Erik says, eyeing the menu.

Having ordered coffee, they wait until their waiter is out of earshot.

Charles clears his throat, before sharing his latest thoughts.

"About the suspect or, hm, suspects. This is someone, who knows their drugs. They must be rather familiar with my schedule and my habits. Seems, that most of the recent events, at least, are connected. I had something for you and I'm starting to think that it just might be something tangible. I mentioned that I vaguely remember this thing, this important evidence, being in my hands, then on the kitchen table. Otherwise, why sneak into my house? What do you say? And this particular question worries me quite a lot: do you think they know what you and I have been discussing? What we have uncovered?"

As Erik's coffee arrives, he falls into grim silence and doesn't hurry to respond. There is no use in denying that this lack of running commentary is bothering Charles.

"They probably know, by now, about us… I need to give my mind a rest. I'm having difficult time thinking about this."

Only, he can't stop his tired mind from wheeling and there is still one question he hasn't asked yet.

"Erik, I feel that I need to ask, so excuse me if I'm wrong. Are you hiding something from me?" Charles reads the answer in Erik's turbulent expression almost immediately and his voice falls. "You are. Will you tell me, now, that you see how willing to cooperate I am?"

"When I contacted my quarters, after I could not find you, I was told to let you be. Apparently, I could have jeopardised an entire operation. I probably did it anyway," Erik clarifies, boldly meeting his eyes.

"Odd man out," jokes Charles darkly with a wry huff and that actually makes Erik look at him differently, as if assessing him anew.

There can't be any mistake: the way he is regarded is frighteningly absorbing, like being in a weird spotlight of both apprehension and trepidation. It won't be easy to gloss over the way Erik's entire composure changes unexpectedly, Charles thinks. Goodness, no one has ever looked at him like that: it doesn't really matter how cheesy that may sound in his head.

"I don't think I was wrong. You are who you аre, Charles. For what it's worth, this still doesn't mean that I can abandon you and pretend that I never had a neighbour, who likes to listen to techno at midnight," says Erik airily.

Charles can spot an attempt at distraction when he hears one, he recognizes the implied truth of the statement, but, nonetheless, lets himself be distracted.

"Huh? That was not my music," rambles Charles under his breath as he stops resisting a smile.

"Ghost's, then?"

"Ah, yeah. In a way," Charles allows the implication to slide free, because he strongly feels that he owes Erik an exceptional degree of sincerity after what has passed between them.

"Charles," Erik pronounces his name like he would pronounce 'do you mind' or something equally dry.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to explain?"

"If you insist," he nods, forgoing hesitation. Talking about something so personal is disturbingly effortless, this once. "Those are just mental manifestations. The fruits of my… pondering over things. You might be tempted to ask a question: can you consider me sane? But, rest assured, I am quite alright. Conventionally speaking. After all, I wouldn't have got the job, if there were any doubts in my ability to manage my own psyche."

And, this once, Charles can't tell whether his explanation is satisfying enough, — Erik does his best to smother any reaction, as if afraid he's already given away too much.

"Let's not waste any more time and start with my office. Can you drive me to university?"

"Someone is looking for you," deadpans Erik, deliberately quiet. "I'm just doing my job, but, Charles, are you okay with showing up in the open? Where you can be spotted?"

Here, Erik surprises him again, because he expresses more thoughtful concern regarding Charles' safety than Charles himself.

"I owe you, Erik. And I owe myself the truth. I'm fine with being your amnesiac bait," Charles forces out and even if he's feigning it a little bit, Erik doesn't have to know. "In any case, inaction is worse at this point. I say, let's try to get to the bottom of it as fast as possible. Together."

.

.

.

Since Charles has got no keys, he has to wait until a custodian gives him a duplicate, which she eventually does, but not after taking her sweet time and making him and Erik escort her to basement floor.

This hidden part of building looks rather modern compared to the rest of the old fashioned campus. Out of necessity, lights are always unfairly bright in here and Charles' eyes, extremely sensitive right now, water immediately. It's more than enough to multiply his discomfort as Misses McGee keeps bombarding him with statements, which echo along white corridor like pebbles thrown into murky well.

"I heard you were bed-ridden the day before," she says, looking Charles up and down, "you certainly look unwell, Professor. A nasty bug, huh?"

"Yes, a very nasty one," coughs Charles into his fist, silently marvelling who he should thank for spreading the word. His voice is rough and scratchy and last time he checked in the mirror he was sickly white, so he doesn't need to try that hard.

"Your girlfriend came looking for you, you know. She seemed worried," she reproaches, while unlocking the doors and guiding them in.

Charles is not proud of a pang and a burst of heat spreading in his chest. Erik, who has been a silent, albeit solid presence at his side all this time, shrugs and gives Charles an encouraging nod.

"There must be some mistake," Charles takes the key she is holding out for him. "I'm not dating anyone."

Misses McGee gives him a _you-can't-lie-to-me_ smile.

"My, my, no worries. It's not like you're breaking the code or this… Erm, what it's called?"

"I believe, the phrase you're looking for is "rules of ethical conduct"," offers Charles helpfully.

"Yes, exactly," she inclines her head. "No problem at all. She isn't your student. Doctor Rogers, old rascal that he used to be," she chuckles fondly and Charles doesn't get to hear the rest of the story, because Erik steps in.

"Ma'm, you've got us intrigued. Who was the mysterious lady?"

"The red-head. Jen, er, – "

"Jean?" asks Charles and lets out a relieved sigh when she nods.

Until then, he didn't realise that their easy friendship might come across as something else.

"That reminds me," ponders Charles on the way upstairs, "do you have any special means to locate my phone?"

"I do. Already tried to no avail."

"Okay."

"You want to call her?" asks Erik when they stop in front of Charles' office.

Charles senses some sort of underlying motive, which he can't quite place.

"I need to call Jean, my department head and dean's office if I want to keep the job. As for Jean, last time I've spoken to her I hurt her feelings. That wasn't my intention, and we haven't talked since then," Charles steps aside to welcome Erik in.

Everything looks untouched. His desk is tidied up. A computer is off. A corner plant is unwatered, because he's been having a crazy week. Charles looks down at the carpet, soaking in the quiet of trivial, ordinary things.

"Before you ask," he tells Erik, "bear with me for a while. Perhaps, it's best not to hope that I'll recall everything, but I'll start with fractions anyway. For instance, here is the place I come to every day, here are things I'm accustomed to… I wasn't feeling particularly well on Thursday. Been awfully busy, so I left late. It was dark. I recall locking this very door and thinking that I needed to take some pills. My head was killing me."

Charles crosses the room and touches the door handle. It is cool and it leaves a rather pleasant imprint. It also inflames tiny cuts on his index finger and on the thumb of his right hand. Erik said he was clutching a shard of glass, when he found him. No wonder it stings.

He turns around and his gaze falls on the envelope lying on the edge of his desk, on top of the journal. Thus comes or, better put, strikes the moment he's been fishing for. A piece of memory comes to light.

"Erik, I – I got it. There was something in my correspondence, stashed among letters. A map, goodness! It was a map: printed out, folded somewhat carelessly."

"And where is it?"

Erik interrupts his inner struggle; however, Charles can't form a coherent response yet.

"I think, I panicked. Can't remember why, but I grabbed it. I know. I must have been in a hurry to leave."

What he recalls is a sudden and very intense flash of fear and the feeling: that of a cornered animal.

"Even most vivid memories are not as reliable as we'd like to think. Sorry, I digress. I'd like to point out, I know myself, Erik, I would have tried to conjure a backup plan. This is what I do. In spite of my poor judgement at that moment, I must have thought of something."

Erik makes a little explicit show of sitting down, with one leg crossed over the other.

"How good is your memory?"

"Usually? Highly precise, when no mind-altering substances are in game."

"Hm, so you get dressed in a hurry and leave your house in the middle of the night with evidence you afraid might end up in wrong hands. Blank space. And when you come to your senses, you claim that someone was in your house," he sums up.

"No, someone had been in my house. Before."

While his scrambled memories of the rest of the week are more or less lining up, Charles describes his dream, which, he believes, was but an altered, hypnotic pattern.

"Their intentions are obvious. Had I said something, or tried to, all my words would have been compromised. Who in their right mind would take my words seriously? You said I was almost catatonic?"

"Probably, yes," Erik hangs his head low, "it would be a perfect bloodless elimination. The mask adds up. If you had been out of it, I bet you'd have had no doubt that the monster had broken into your house."

"One more nail in the coffin of my sanity."

"I have to say, it's a valid theory so far," nods Erik – the _but_ is left hanging in the air.

.

.

.

The staffroom has happened to be deserted when they strolled in. Charles just turns to ask Erik whether he would like more coffee, when Erik's phone buzzes.

"Lab?"

"Chief," Erik comments, looking at the screen, purely annoyed, and Charles, momentarily discouraged by the news or, rather, lack thereof, waves him off.

"May take a while," warns him Erik and then walks out of the room, phone pressed to his ear and his voice deliberately flat.

Not for the first time this morning, Charles pauses to wipe his forehead: stands of hair are persistently clinging to his temples. Despite feeling cold, he breaks into chilly sweat — his body's attempt to get rid of toxins is decidedly less than pleasant.

Before approaching a table and picking up a receiver, Charles hesitates. But, he has to overcome his doubts sometime and it better be sooner rather than later. Thankfully, his mind is helpful in this case: it is full of phone numbers, so he can speak with everyone he needs. And, now, while he is more or less composed, he controls his voice and has enough sense not be perplexed when his department head inquires him how he is feeling. One of his lines might suggest that Charles called him early on Friday morning, asking for a day off.

Work-related issues dealt with, he dials Jean's number. He wonders whether she will answer a call from a landline. That's why he chooses to leave a message. Simple and quite short.

He puts the receiver down and turns. There is a sofa in the corner and Charles takes a step in its direction, longing for plush comfort it offers.

Behind him, the phone breaks into ringing.

With hunch which appears almost on the verge of supernatural, Charles turns, closes his hand upon the receiver and picks it up. His hands are true to the purpose where his heart and mind aren't. Therefore, his disordered faculties do register this moment as extremely long.

"Hello again, Charles," that softness and intonations are chillingly familiar.

Charles' reaction is visceral. It almost feels as if he has been punched in the stomach.

"How come you have Jean's phone?" asks-guesses Charles levelly, and goodness, how much this fake calm cost him.

"It's hugely irrelevant. It matters that I do and it also matters what implications you can draw."

Now Charles remembers, although dimly, sitting opposite this man and holding his gaze and focusing on shadows falling across the room as the sun goes down.

"— you're not a stupid man, Professor. Besides, she is not really necessary, as you may guess. And, how are you feeling today?"

"Been better," Charles grabs the pen and paper, lying on the table, and begins drawing, as he simultaneously tries to comb through his words.

It has already been said, hasn't it? Yes, certainly.

 _If you were true to the whole of your bargain: that they give their lives out of their own volition, that they seek demise and corruption at your hands… but we both know that it's no more but ungracious lie. You've had your chance of facing me and, yet, you needed to render me mentally and physically helpless. Your ritual is a poor travesty, aimed at fulfilling basic need to establish control over death._

"I know that you are keeping silent and I wonder why. Are you trying to figure out who is who in the police department? Or, have you finally realized that your allegations are unfounded and inconclusive? Oh, and is your babysitter still nearby?"

"Is Jean?" echoes Charles.

"Be careful," he says in warning. "You forgot who you're talking to."

As an unintentional truth of the statement swats at him, Charles sucks in a deep breath. _Steady_ , he reminds himself. Don't give in.

"You will profit from telling me the truth."

"Clearly not," cuts off Charles and hangs up.

Goodness, don't let him be wrong.

For a single moment, he contemplates what to do next. That is, until matters are taken out of his hands and the door swooshes open.

"Erik — ," he starts, but when he turns, air gets stuck in his throat.

.

.

.


	8. Chapter 8

.

.

.

As Worthington is sniffing out the room, Charles, relying on touch only, quickly pushes his clumsy landscape sketch underneath the pile of paper on the table.

"Come along, don't give us the reason to hurt you," says Worthington and then Charles sees another man, a taller one, just behind him.

Noticing his stupor, Worthington sighs and casually unfolds his jacket, revealing a holstered gun.

"I don't mind using it," and mad glint in his eyes says Charles that he is telling the truth.

His feet move as though bogged down in a morass. In the doorway, Worthington lays a hand right between Charles' shoulder blades and pushes him in the direction of the stairwell.

"Follow the big guy step in step. I'll be keeping an eye on you. If you are thinking — he can't shoot an innocent man in broad daylight and get away with it, — think again."

Charles doesn't care about a few people passing them, just as they don't care about him being escorted through the hall and out, down the winding lane. The nature of his predicament is simple: he doesn't think that his resistance would be fruitful, so he chooses to comply. And he is thinking, thinking hard where the hell Erik is and how they managed to find him. The latter is explainable: someone on campus saw him and reported it. The former isn't clear at all.

Funny, it's already afternoon, and it took him an enforced walk through the University Park to realize that. The sky has decided to pull the drapes, and the promise of fine day was only that. A mere flick.

Anxiety smashes into him, and smashes pretty hard, when they come up to the SUV smartly parked behind the corner, out of sight of curious eyes.

Behind him, Worthington gives a frustrated huff at Charles' unintentional step back.

"Here I thought I was asking nicely."

Suddenly, Worthington grabs him in the chokehold and presses some rough cloth to the lower part of his face. While Charles clutches hold of his forearm, or tries to, his mind is still processing why he can breathe and why he doesn't smell anything. To intensify his confusion Worthington whispers in his ear.

"Pretend you're out."

Pretending is easy, and he allows his body to sag and his eyes to close. Worthington doesn't let him slide down all the way to the ground, catches him, circling both arms around his chest, and it feels like they are playing one of these trust games, so popular among corporate gurus.

"Not the boot, Christ. Try explaining that to cordon," hisses Worthington harshly. "Open the back door."

"What cordon?"

"There might be. This shit's already out of my jurisdiction."

Charles strains his ears to let the sounds form a proper mental picture of what is going on, but he finds it somewhat difficult to be a great judge of direction.

He is pushed on the backseat, and he thumps down like a sack; thankfully, avoiding bumping his head. Having landed on his uncomfortably twisted arm, he nearly gives himself away.

"You didn't frisk him or cuff him," the other man reminds Worthington, as Charles works to bring his breathing back to normal.

"Fuck you," huffs Worthington and slams the door so hard that the residual bang sets Charles' teeth on edge.

" – no, screw him. Start the car," Worthington gets into front seat and his partner obeys.

"You should explain it to him."

"Sure, I will," the seatbelts slide in with swift clicks.

They turn on the music, and after about ten minutes of concentration on turns and traffic lights stops Charles gives up. He is made fairly weary and drunk by anticipating terror, which clouds his observation skills. He dares not peek at his captors, feeling that he might sabotage Worthington's efforts. Meanwhile, the road gets free of traffic lights and by the amount of twists and turns that jolt his body, Charles guesses that they must have left town. They drive on and on until Worthington speaks out.

"Alright, stop the car," his voice is raised above funk beats.

"Right here?"

"Yes, dumbass," he drawls, and Charles braces himself for a jerk.

The car does stop, but not a second later Charles hears something like a groan and then a gurgling sound, so he snaps his head up in time to glimpse the driver falling over the wheel. A splatter of blood on the beige panel is almost like an afterimage.

As the dying body continues to seize up, reliving through last paroxysms, Worthington turns to him and asks, casually, over the music beats.

"Come on, help me drag him out."

Charles sees him wiping a thin blade on the now dead man's jacket.

He scrambles for the door handle, looking around and about. They are on the road through woodlands, and, behind them, Charles recognizes the intersection he takes when he drives to the Grey Yard. The lonely, narrow patch of road seems to be holding his gaze, because looking up means facing more than he can bear.

"Hey, Xavier!"

Now Charles has to glance up.

Having already circled the car, Worthington refrained from saying anything else, but he looked at Charles pointedly enough that he understood what Worthington wanted him to do.

 _Steady_ , he tells himself. This day will soon be over.

Together, they drag the surprisingly heavy body out and into the shrubbery, about ten steps from the road, where some rustling leaves get torn from the branches and, after a gentle swirl, settle on the man's torso. Charles bends as though to cover his eyes, while his other hand slips in the bloodied pocket groping after the plastic budge. One chance look at the gaping throat, with pinkish edges of neatly sliced flesh and still oozing blood nearly undoes Charles again, but he, somehow, stifles the urge to gag as his fingers close over the phone. He pushes it up his coat sleeve with all precaution he can muster.

Worthington kicks the man's foot peeking out from the bushes and Charles throws some of that caution to wind.

"Where is detective Lehnsherr?" he asks the first thing troubling him.

"Lehnsherr? Dunno," Worthington shrugs absently, "Dukes had to make sure he didn't interfere, but I haven't heard from him since we went in. Come on, go and get back in the car."

"You killed Blake," he whispers, as it finally slots into place.

"You said Blake? To be polite, Professor, I have already forgotten about that fucker, so, please, don't remind me again. Shall we?"

Charles has a memory so small, that he forgot it even existed. The memory of shaking hands with Worthington.

"You overestimate the boundaries of my good will," with that Worthington pulls out a gun and points the muzzle at Charles' head.

"You're on something," states Charles quietly, not moving an inch. "You're completely unhinged."

"Like you weren't," he sneers. His face, which could have been handsome if not for certain crudeness, remains carefully impassive and his hand holding a gun absolutely doesn't shake. "I just happen to be very good at it. At killing people. But today I'm killing monsters, so I must be even better."

"If we met yesterday, I have to confess, I don't remember that," ventures Charles.

"Shit," he lowers the gun and curses.

"Warren, thank you for helping me. But — "

"I don't have time for buts. So, you don't remember anything?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Most people don't experience this side-effect after what you've been given," he turns thoughtful again, his expressions swinging back and forth with unhealthy frequency.

"I can recall, very vaguely, talking to some man in the shadowed room," Charles muses. "It seemed as if he tried certain techniques to manipulate my perceptions, which, I guess, he failed to do."

"Yeah, he does that, that fucking brain slug," Worthington sighs, "and, man, you've made him so angry, that I won't kill you point blank out of respect."

"Thanks," Charles drops sarcastically. "It's a pity that the only triumphant moment I've had in a while has faded."

Worthington suddenly bursts out laughing and then, as abruptly, he stops.

"I'll count to, say, eleven," and he cocks his gun. "One."

It's not overstatement to say that Charles has never run that fast in his life. Several times he barely misses the trees, he gets slapped by branches, he suspects he runs into quite a few spider webs, but he doesn't dare look back, because some animal, purely instinctual part of him knows that the man he's left behind is death.

.

.

.

.

Perhaps, it is a bad idea to sit resting on the log next to the creek and look down at water, as the sight only ignites his thirst. The darkness is falling quicker than he anticipated. Charles checks the dead man's mobile again. It displays a quarter to five and a persistent lack of signal bars. He has got his fair share of things gone wrong, so, Charles has every right to hope that the black streak will be over very soon.

The whole framework of this cult is in progress of shaping inside his head, and he uses this mental exercise to distract himself from reality of sitting somewhere in the forest, waiting for nocturnal life forms to emerge.

Upon getting a faint indication that Worthington and Charles have met the day before and have come to some kind of mutual agreement, a lot becomes clear. For instance, if Charles, somehow, had got in trouble or was captured yesterday, he might have had a helping hand throughout his escapades. Worthington, he, well, in Charles' professional opinion, he was a danger to society and himself and whoever allowed him to work for police should be held accountable. Also, Worthington seemed to think that Charles knew what he was doing and why. Goodness, he could have spared a minute or two to tell an entire story, thinks Charles bitterly, staring at the running water.

With infinite gravity, he thinks about Jean. How did she get involved? Did they mistake her for his girlfriend as well? Yet, it may be that Jean didn't heed his warning to drop that self-proclaimed investigation, just like he didn't heed Erik's.

The mental reasoning, which he attempts to balance out, doesn't quite work. Okay, Worthington went and killed Blake at the very restaurant, where there was a staff party. Blake was meeting someone from the party or, maybe, was simply spying on the person in question. But the murder was personal, Charles wasn't wrong about that. It was as personal as the mad force driving Worthington today. No, he fails to connect the dots with these two.

Taking a mental step back, Charles considers what he knows.

There is a cult. There is at least one extremely gifted manipulator, who prefers luring away young girls for purposes yet unknown, but highly malicious. Said cult can boast creme de la crème, the best people of the town. Since they select their victims with care and precision, Charles dares assume that aside from obvious need to consume symbolic vitality, and thus establish control over death, the ritual itself bears the traces of dedication.

"Oh my, how could I be so blind?" asks Charles aloud as an idea comes to light.

That must be that blasted Town Day… a metaphorical harvest of youth. Yes, it fits!

He springs to his feet, and continues walking along the creek, mindful of tricky tripping roots.

"Why kill Blake? If they want the same thing, that makes no sense. No, that actually makes sense. Blake and Worthington, they both held, hold the grudge, which makes them hypothetical rivals. They're both from the privileged families, fine background and," he snaps this thread of thought and latches onto next. "Innovative drugs are part of these people's business? Money, then? It seems to me that Erik wasn't completely honest with me, after all."

Dreadfully pale, she holds her raised hand pointed to the right and Charles all but stumbles, exclamation of surprise dead on his lips.

Heart incredibly heavy, he looks at Jubilee in what he knows is the last time.

She continues pointing to the right, away from the stream. Is it where his purpose lies?

"Thank you," he says, and begins an uncomfortable trip through dried brushwood, bidding final farewell to his long-suffering coat and shoes.

Darkness doesn't come in bits. In one moment it just erupts throughout the woods and Charles turns on a phone flashlight. After a five minute walk, he comes right to a tall marking fence, stretching as far as he can see under star light. It is steel net wound between rather thick metal bars, running parallel to the ground. The fence is higher than he is by a foot or so.

When he checks signal bars, his heart skips a bit, because one bar is flashing on and off.

There is also a private property sign Charles studiously ignores when he climbs over the railing and lands on the other side of the fence.

As he comes up the hill, a large field stretches below his feet. His eyes fall on the dark mass of trees planted in a circle. Partly because he's curious, and partly because he's intimidated by the scenery, Charles proceeds in that direction with rapid steps. The trees appear to be ancient apple trees and they are truly mighty: their circumference alone is impressive. Indeed, Charles is no expert, but are apple trees that long lived?

The tree crowns rustling over his head are magnificent. Wind breathes down his collar, and its ghostly caress grants Charles a sense of meaning, produced and enhanced by serene clearing he is standing in the middle of. This placid island… on the very fringe of bucolic calm. The peace and quiet of the place tear a single inhuman sound from his throat, the only expression of sorrow he's capable of right now.

Respite, he decides, and sags down on the ground, because his feet refuse to obey anyway.

Whilst waiting till Erik answers his phone Charles is staring ahead, unseeing and unafraid of ghastly, gaunt shadows, reaching their talons to grab him.

"Hey, it's Charles," he breathes and hears Erik's voice and sirens wailing in the background, but no words. The contrast to quiet, which is shrouding him in the field, is really striking.

"Charles? Charles, say something. Can you talk?"

"Yes. Right. You okay?"

"Am I? Are you joking?"

"I suppose you mean 'yes'."

"Are you?"

"I'm fine."

He and Erik are on the same impulsive wavelength. It figures.

"Listen, Worthington is on a rampage," Charles feels like he is squeezing words out of himself when he describes what happened to him. "Also, I've got a very good hunch. I might have discovered a burial site."

"Where are you? Can you tell?"

"Somewhere in the fields. Erik, I don't have a clue," he admits sheepishly and tells Erik what he can see around. "And, while I was on the phone back in the staffroom… To facilitate the process, so to say, I started drawing automatically. I think I was there yesterday: the picture grew fairly distinct in my mind. I wish I knew what it means. Sorry, I might be distracting you — "

Sounds in the background disappear altogether — Erik must have come indoors.

"Come again? Which drawing? I found yours and had the locals find the house," utters Erik quickly.

"Great," those are mere bread crumbs in comparison to things troubling him the most at the moment. "Jean? Did you find her?"

"We will start looking immediately. Charles… can barely hear you…"

An unpleasant tone in his ear follows Erik's last words and Charles tries dialing the same number again. Once he gets to his feet and circles the clearing, signal disappears altogether, no matter what spot he tries. Luck, that was generous up to that moment, appears to have abandoned him.

Although, guided by the same absorbing feeling that led him there, he refuses to leave this place. Charles hasn't been here before, but he definitely had the same feeling as he is experiencing right now. Dread and astonishment, tangled like vile vipers. What a duo. Feelings he must trust, he reflects, for everything else, mostly Friday memories, is not salvageable: he has been slowly coming to terms with this realization.

After pocketing the phone, he tugs at the edge of the bandage, which, he discovers, is peeking out from under his sleeve, probably coming undone on its own. He pushes up his coat sleeve, then, rolls up his sweater. He is rather disgruntled with himself in a way he is sometimes disgruntled with a good student, who suddenly fails to catch up on a fairly average topic.

Under the circumstances, he should have considered that possibility.

Dried blood is a nuisance. With bandage discarded, Charles can hardly see anything, and he's having dangerous thoughts of scraping it away, which he doesn't do due to completely rational fear of getting the cuts open. Because he's probably getting them infected in any case, that is.

In poor light, the cuts look like rough, black smudges on his puffy skin. He almost definitely needs to have them tended to. The hurt reminds of itself in the same juncture of time. In a certain weird way, he relishes the presence of pain, which, along with thirst and exhaustion, is nothing but indication of life.

"I've gone a bit far with leaving notes on skin," grumbles Charles, narrowing his eyes at crude lines.

First letter seems to be M.

.

.

.

.

Having pushed himself into walking up another hill, Charles exhaled heavily. A sense of accomplishment lends him a boost of adrenalin, which helps him dial Erik one more time and deal with waiting afterwards.

A helicopter catches him off guard. Though, Erik did promise to arrive quickly, Charles was expecting something less loud and flashy.

Whilst it's landing, Charles, in agitation, fights the urge to take cover. It would be useless — trees are way far behind. It's a testament to residual panic, nothing more.

Two men in black uniform, carrying a long container, and a woman in ordinary suit spill out of open doors and pass him without as much as a brief look in his direction. Erik is next to come out. He is wearing body armor and he is coming straight for Charles.

"Get in," he plants one hand on Charles' head, gestures to keep it low and tries to outcry propeller generated onslaught. "I must check the site! You'll be safe!"

"I hope you're right," shouts Charles in reply, and Erik claps him on the shoulder as if to finalize the deal.

When Charles grabs the door someone assists him from inside and he murmurs thanks before he realizes that the paramedic in a yellow vest has headphones on. She swiftly examines his eyes and takes his pulse, and then carefully cleans the cuts. While she's applying a new bandage Charles tilts up a small water bottle he was given. Liquid tastes heavenly in his dry mouth.

They land on the rooftop in no time, though, and she exits the helicopter together with Charles.

"Excuse me, could you, please, explain what is going on and where we are?"

Charles feels exactly like he felt upon waking up in Erik's house this morning: lost and overwhelmed.

"We're at the police station," she steps aside as another group marches towards helicopter. "Come down with me."

They are in the station building, indeed. As the roof door slams shut, she speaks again, quickly trotting down the stairs with Charles in tow.

"You are dehydrated and also you've got a minor fever. Take in small amounts of water, no coffee or tea. And bed rest, of course. Have you got headache?"

"Yes, some."

"I recommend a light snack. I was warned that your blood test showed abnormal range of concentrated metabolite, so if I were you, I would refrain from overloading your liver with painkillers, unless absolutely necessary."

"Thank you," hurries to say Charles just when she pushes the doors to the second floor and they continue walking along a narrow corridor.

"I'm sorry. Do you know what is going on?" he tries again.

"Something big. I'm not aware of the details, but even I know that Operations Division has temporarily taken over."

"They can do that?" Charles asks, incredulous.

"I was surprised too. Apparently, yes," she intercepts a gruff, middle-aged man in a smart suit, currently on the phone, walking the same corridor. "Excuse me, sir, I'm looking for someone named Summers. Combined Operations?"

"Who the hell are you?" he snaps, but then his eyes fall on Charles and he does a double take as if he recognizes him.

"Is it —?"

"Charles Xavier," Charles introduces himself. "The lady is looking for someone. Can you help us?"

"Straight ahead, then turn left. The second door on your right. You won't miss it."

After he walks away, picking up interrupted conversation, Charles pauses to mutter.

"Sorry for overtaking the dialogue."

"No harm done. I'm used to assholes. You have no idea how many I encounter in a day."

As they turn left, the buzz gets louder and they really can't miss it — doors wide open and quite a few people are talking at once. There are about ten desks in the room, and a young man at the closest to the exit quickly stands up when they peek in.

"I'm Alex Summers. You're probably looking for me."

"Your boss said you were to meet us on the roof," huffs the paramedic.

"I didn't expect you back so soon," protests Summers before he refocuses on Charles. "Sorry, sir, it's bedlam in here. Upper floors are under urgent maintenance. We are crammed in with other departments. And just in time for a major shit-storm to strike."

Charles gives him a small smile, because he can hardly speak or move anywhere else for that matter.

"We've got a forensic team at your house right now, so you can't go back there. And we haven't herded all bastards yet, so it's better for you to stay here. Come with me."

The paramedic disappears somewhere on the way as Summers leads Charles through the crowded room to the door hidden in the back.

People are staring. Some ask questions Summers answers to, whilst Charles' head is growing heavier and heavier.

The final door reveals a cramped office, which looks uninhabited. Bookcase is empty, but the desk is barricaded with piles upon piles of cardboard boxes. A sofa snuggles in the corner. On it, there's a blue folded blanket.

"You can lock the door from the inside if you want," Summers gives him a key. "On behalf of our department, I apologize for inconveniences. At least, no one should disturb you. Oh, I nearly forgot. Lehnsherr told me to get you a new phone. We will need the one you have as evidence."

When they exchange mobiles, Charles does lock the door behind Summers. This is more than just a simple precaution on his part: he needs to be in control of things happening around him. Even if this sense of control is as flimsy as the plywood door.

.

.

.


	9. Chapter 9

.

.

.

Erik puts one empty cardboard box atop of the other and now they have a make-shift table for pizza. As Charles rubs sleep out of his eyes, Erik doesn't waste time: he pulls up a chair and sits opposite him.

"Only midnight?" Charles hums absently, when he lifts his gaze from the phone. "I imagined I've been asleep for unholy amount of time."

"I woke you up?" Erik picks up a paper coffee cup and takes off the lid – thick aroma hits Charles, none too gentle, fueling a pulling sensation in his stomach.

"No, don't worry. I can safely say I was already balancing on the edge of awareness when you knocked. Well, what," Charles pauses and lingers on the word, because there are so many questions whirling in his head that he is at a loss. It's like someone is rapidly going through TV channels on dozen different screens at the same time.

"You were right. I don't know how you did that, but you found them. The bodies," confirms Erik.

Charles nods and pulls the blanket tighter around himself, for nagging cold is fighting its way to his skin, despite sweater and all. Must be another side effect of his withdrawal. Erik, ruffled, but nonetheless rather steady, seems to be fine in a plain shirt only.

"Let's grab a bite while we can," offers Erik, dragging his attention back to teasing smell of melted cheese and hot chicken.

"Alright," he wills his lips into a half-smile.

Bite by bite, Charles is drawing himself together. Right now Erik appears lost in thought too. Charles finds it a tad amusing that, once again, sharing a meal with Erik becomes something like a milestone.

"I've gone over it in my head," he says finally, reaching for a carton of juice Erik has offered him. "And I have to say that I'm sorry. Sorry for not listening to you in the first place. It was," he swallows, "it was arrogant of me to think that I could deal with this investigation on my own."

Erik is smirking into his coffee: he is evidently satisfied with him admitting it.

"I don't know what I should say to the man, who is constantly ignoring my point. Yet, somehow has virtually managed to prove it anyway," he says then, dropping the smirk. "Thank you nonetheless. You helped me a lot."

Summers clears his throat and Charles draws in a sharp breath: he didn't notice him peeking through the half-closed door.

"We found the girl. She's alive," he announces to Erik and rattles off the address, while Erik is putting his jacket back on.

"Jean? Is this Jean?" gasps Charles.

Summers nods and steps aside, in order to let Erik swing the door open.

"Charles? You should stay here till morning at least. Okay?"

Immensely relieved once the news settles in, Charles voices his agreement and rests his head on the back of the sofa. He hears Erik and Summers talking just by the closed door, but their voices are deliberately hushed. When Charles gathers his wits enough to venture out of the office, Erik has already left.

However, the room is not as crowded as it used to be, since he can only see Summers, who is talking on the phone, with his back to him, and some woman, furiously scribbling something on the sticker at the corner desk. She stands up and leaves, fetching a coat. One look at the almost empty coat hanger proves his suspicion that other occupants are elsewhere.

"- yes, very identifiable. Caucasian male, six feet, yes. Approach with caution," speaks Summer's into the receiver. "Fine, call me back. Okay."

He notices Charles.

"Do you need anything? One sec."

"Okay," Charles sits on the chair by his desk and waits until Summers is done with another call.

There is a new uncomfortable feeling prickling at his nape. Chill. Exposure. Uncertainty. He has never registered it as sharp as today. Following his ordeal it seems like not a big deal, but Charles knows from experience that he'll absolutely need to address this issue later.

"Can you, please, tell me what's going on?" asks Charles as soon as Summers is done with the call.

"I don't know if I can," shrugs Summers, giving him a tired yet cool look. "Probably not."

Well, what did he expect?

"But it sucks to be left out so much," Summers smirks and something about his tone reminds Charles of high-school pranksters.

Charles studies him, keeping silent. He is loath rushing.

"In the end, we've got him thanks to you. Remember you left a clue?"

"That picture? A bit of automatic drawing on my part," Charles thinks back to drawing while on the phone with a mysterious man. "I was mainly trying to jolt my memory."

"Yeap. The thing is that was one of the places on Lehnsherr's check list. To think that our potential witness, you, got missing all of the sudden," seeing Charles' confusion he relents. "Let's say there was someone who was supposed to have the eyes on that very house."

"But they weren't looking in the right direction?" Charles prods carefully.

"That was some rat act. Lehnsherr has already dealt with it," Summers stands up and offers. "I need to get the interrogation started. I think, you can follow me. Let's pretend that you're some kind of external consultant."

"Sure," nods Charles, catching up.

They walk out back in the corridor maze.

"Name's Charles Windsor. 44 years old," tells him Summers in a low voice, adding to a surge of shock bolting through Charles — that fact that they share a name stings. "Goes by Dr. Windsor. M.D. is legit, I've checked. Runs an extremely overpriced private clinic downtown. Specializes in reconstruction surgery. Intelligent and, according to my female colleagues, very good-looking. He is also loaded; he has plenty of connections. His alibi on the night of Lee's disappearance won't stand a chance in court if we present it properly. Seems like our client."

"Not exactly," Charles shakes his head and darts a look at his newly bandaged arm.

"I don't mean to be rude or insensitive, or some other shit. But, well, I wish you could testify. We could have done it so much faster," sighs Summers, apparently missing his brief no.

"Likewise. So, then, do you believe him to be the leader of this cult?" questions Charles.

"I believe him to be the biggest snake in the pit," jokes Summers darkly, nodding to guards, as they enter a rather small room with green steel doors in the opposite wall.

There's a man at the desk staring at two computer screens with different video footage running. He turns his head upon their arrival and Charles sees that he's very young.

"This is our consultant, Professor Xavier," Summers explains bluntly.

They exchange handshakes and Charles takes a seat at the desk. His ears register a faint click of the door, while his eyes are glued to the dark-haired man on the screen, who is staring right at the camera with neutral, a bit bored expression. Charles leans forward a little and then nods. Though, the memory is, by far, unclear, his senses tell him that this man is the one.

"So?" inquires Summers from behind his back.

"Try not asking him anything," says Charles slowly.

"Excuse me?" comes a puzzled reply.

"Start talking as you come in. Be loud and assertive, obnoxious even. You know better. Imply that he isn't as smart as he thinks he is, but don't be too daft. Should he try condescending, ignore it, but play it smoothly."

"Okay, I can pull the asshole act," Summers smiles and offers him a mocking salute. "Just you watch."

.

.

.

.  
Upon opening his front door Charles expected bedlam and that was what he got. Apparently, cleaning is overdue. But, he is so unfairly exhausted that he's ready to drop right on the unmade bed and be done with the never-ending day.

Erik, who has kindly driven him home, doesn't hurry to leave. Instead, he follows Charles into the living room. He is the first to break the silence.

"Did I mention that they think drugs are in your toothpaste?"

"Very creative of them. Well, that just adds it to a long shopping list, then," says Charles dryly, as he eyes the bloody mess on the floor.

Suddenly, he isn't that sleepy any more. He might as well deal with glass shards and that bloody carpet.

"Summers told me about your advice."

"Did he?" echoes Charles with little to no inflection. "Windsor is a vain, boastful man, led by his sense of superiority and pride. I'm sorry he didn't confess. That was worth a try. I deduced, he could abandon his cool act eventually just to show off."

"Yes. Actually, I'd have done so myself. We can hold him for some time. It was a nice start."

Charles turns to him. Morning lights grants Erik's otherwise slightly tanned complexion a hint of paleness. For a moment, his eyes lose their usual piercing quality and seem almost blue, and unusually warm. Not for the first time, Charles registers a wayward emotion which springs forth should Erik appear nearby. There is not just bare aesthetical and emotional attraction, but a hint of something more. Something stronger than mere fixation. He takes hold of that thought before it gets lost amidst his multiple worries.

"Worthington has fled after the massacre at Tornton country residence. We can't locate him. It's quite possible he went off the grid."

"Tornton? Do tell me… Where did I hear that name?"

"The Mayor," says Erik and shakes his head, as though he doesn't know what else to do. "There's plenty of footage from the scene. Worthington didn't look like it bothered him. The thing is, he missed Windsor by three minutes or so."

Charles is so grateful that an armchair is within his reach. He sinks in with a heavy heart.

"I think, you aren't safe. Not yet," continues Erik, taking a step to him and thus breaching his ever crumbling personal space bubble.

"I can guess as much," admits Charles and goes on. "It's like I told you in the car: now I recall everything up to the moment I fetched a map fragment, left and ran into Worthington. The map is out of question, since I've already led you to that place in the fields. Anything else is and, I'm afraid, will remain a blur because Worthington is not here to share the details. I made peace with that. I may only assume, vaguely, that I spent that night elsewhere. I also might have been to the burial site. And, while not on my own volition, I might have visited Windsor's house some time on Thursday. Seeing that this memory gap is chemically-induced, I don't know how to deal with it. Besides, you didn't mention this drug side-business of theirs before. I might have been prepared if I knew what I was dealing with," he can't refrain from pointing it out for the sake of stating the truth.

"Charles, it was —"

"Fine. That's fine. It's also true that I'm the one to blame for my misfortunes. Just let me get rid of steam. Will you?"

"Aren't you the one who should do listening and consulting?" wonders Erik, hiding a small startled smile. Tension seeps from his posture.

That looks good on him and Charles discovers that his demonstrative diversion was worth it.

They both desperately need to relax if only for a little while.

After Erik leaves, Charles, as per his initial intention, starts cleaning. He collects broken glass in the dust bin and then takes the fallen picture and flattens a folded corner with his hand. He muses at his grinning young self. No matter how hard he tries he can't say where a lot of traces of that carefree boy have gone. Unlike him, his late sister and his mother are wearing serious expressions. Though, strictly speaking, they aren't even looking at the camera. Something has always been off about this particular picture. It stirred strange emotions. In the beginning it made it to the album because Charles liked the unusual setup: there was he, surprised, in that stupid bright hat, but smiling, his mother, with an identifiable frown, the rest of guests, who were involved in the conversation in the background. That was some kind of garden party, wasn't it?

He turns it over and discovers that there's a smudge of red on the back. First comes a pang of frustration. Then — a feeling of defeat.

Are separation and loss sticking with him wherever he goes?

Obviously no, that depressing thought can't be true — that's what he could have told any patient with that claim. Right?

.

.

.

.

Local Sunday news painted last night's events in truly apocalyptic light. A story about the massacre courtesy of a well-known scion of Worthington family leaked out and right now every reporter was probably with their ear to the ground. Now Charles knew what footage Erik had spoken about this morning. It was all around the place. It also made the nationals.

From news report he also learns more about Worthington's past: about his mother's abrupt suicide ten years ago, about his dedication to police, some little dirty secrets being suddenly revealed by his peers.

The question remained: why? Why on earth would he do that?

For Charles his motivation was obvious — it was revenge, stemmed from strong emotional pain or shock. After discovering truth about previous misses Worthington's demise he could bet it was what triggered it. What followed next, he presumes, was scrupulous and devoted work on Warren's part: molding himself into a tool for revenge, becoming the part of the privileged circle of people, who still entertained the idea of human sacrifice as a valid pastime. Maybe, his mother threatened to expose them. Maybe. Some things are always left unknown.

On the other hand, they didn't mention the cult itself. Not a word. Most likely, Erik's department is still keeping it under the rug. But it's a matter of time before it gets out in the open.

At ten to twelve Charles tries calling the hospital and asking for Jean, but the line is constantly busy.

At twelve sharp Erik comes back to knock at his door.

He's got dark circles under his eyes and he's still pale. Erik looks like someone who has just woken up and that's precisely what happened. Clean shave and perfectly pressed suit can only do this much, muses Charles.

As for Charles himself, he didn't catch a wink of sleep since Erik left. Simply couldn't. His mind was put on a replay of recent conversations he's had. Truth be told, he was losing himself in the inner cacophony just a bit.

"Erik, how can I help you?" he asks a little stiffly, because there is a unique contemplating look in Erik's eyes. It makes Charles a tad wary.

"What are your plans for today?" counters Erik instead of answering.

"And may I ask why you are wondering? Come in, by the way. You're letting chill inside."

Erik steps in, so Charles can finally shut the door.

It made a difference in temperature, but awkwardness remained.

"I don't trust you," starts Erik and raises a hand as Charles opens his mouth to object. "Please, let me finish. I think, there's something you aren't telling me. Also, I don't want to be misunderstood — I don't trust you not get into trouble again. That's what I mean."

"Okay, let's talk about this. You want to know whether I am hiding something? I am not," Charles frowns to himself, while engaged in mental cataloguing. Has he missed anything? And then he huffs. "If only… Well, that's about my arm. I keep asking myself — what was I thinking? What was I doing exactly? And what for?"

Erik crosses hands in front of his chest, unconsciously projecting skepticism.

"Explain, please."

"I believe I was trying to leave a message. A note. You may call it that. I looked at it closer and I can really make out separate letters. Like 'm' and 'a'. The third one is unclear."

"Charles, you were drugged."

"Why do you keep repeating it, Erik? I already know I was. That's why I can't testify."

"You failed to comprehend who you were. Who I was. Leaving a message? Forgive me my disbelief."

"You're forgiven," says Charles somewhat petulantly. "As for your worries, I don't think Worthington will be coming back to kill me. He's got his share of troubles."

"I also don't think he will," speaks Erik clinically. "But I never managed to complete the list or get info on everyone involved, for that matter, because of your timely interference. We have got plenty of them, we already pressed charges. But some fish is still off the hook. And while you're practically useless as a witness, they aren't inevitably aware of it."

"Well," Charles amends. "In this case, your concern is justified."

"It always is," of course Erik has to stress his point with almost haughty pleasure.

Charles reads more to it, or he thinks he does, but decides to keep his observations to himself. Now is not the time.

"I planned to stay at home and finish the cleaning and wait for the locksmith. Then, I wanted to visit Jean in hospital, see how she is doing. But, I guess, you are against it."

"I'm just going there myself. You can come with me," offers Erik.

Charles politely refrains from an eye-roll — obviously, Erik could have said so from the start.

"Alright. Could you give me a few minutes?"

.

.

.

.  
Charles lets go of her hand, because Erik clears his throat behind his back. He continues smiling though, inwardly thinking how grateful he is that Jean is back.

She is smiling too, a touch sleepy and already tense. Her fiery hair is currently the brightest thing there is in the hospital room. It seems to be soaking up the last of autumn sunlight spilling though the window.

There is a policeman stationed outside her door. He recognized Erik immediately, but tried to stop Charles from coming in. Erik looked pleased when he did that.

"Right," Erik attempts to replay the conversation by getting straight to business. "Miss Grey, I'd like to ask you a few questions? May I?"

"Yeah," Jean breathes, her smile falling.

"Don't worry. I'll be brief. You said you've been approached by a man yesterday in the morning? When and where exactly did it happen?"

"I left my apartment at around 7, I think. The nearest bus stop is usually deserted this early in the morning. I don't remember paying much attention to him until he apologized and asked something along the line — _how do I get to the hospital_. He sounded very polite. He reminded me of Professor," Jean adds suddenly and Charles sits upright.

"Oh? That's so interesting! Sorry to interrupt," Charles says hastily, before he turns to Erik with eagerness, which lifts something off his chest. "You see, that's how it happens. It's incredible how talented he is, right? Of course, it requires preparation, some sort of tuning in. After which, he can shift through personas very quickly. He inserts himself into your safety zone and then, you'd follow him anywhere, you'd do whatever is asked of you. Because, this person, say, resembles a family member you feel obliged to listen to," he trails off and stands up, unable to keep himself from developing an idea once it flashed in full light.

It's sort of embarrassing, but he loses himself to his racing thoughts for a while. Next fragment of exchange he catches is that of Jean holding a touchpad.

"Yes, that's him. There's no doubt," she says, tapping on the screen. "Though my recollection is a tiny bit foggy… No, I mean, yes. I'm sure."

Erik hangs his head down by a fraction. He is trying not to show it, but he is relieved. Charles doesn't think he can ever understand what pressure Erik has been under all this time.

"You two have a very strange relationship," muses Erik when they reach elevator.

Charles waves a vague hand, while shaking his head at the same time.

"It may appear so. I guess, with me being overly familiar," Charles pauses, belatedly realizing that Erik is observing him with a barely there smile. "What? Did I say something wrong? I'm getting drowsy, so, I assume, I might be uttering nonsense."

"Maybe that's professional," mutters Erik under his breath as the elevator arrives with a cheerful ding. "You tend to switch to explanation mode should anyone make a loose remark."

Charles steps aside to allow the crowd of people spill from the metal box. Some eager person elbows him, either accidentally or on purpose. Charles loses sight of them immediately afterwards.

"Charles? You coming?" calls Erik.

Jerked out of transfixed state, he makes a noise of agreement and quickly steps in. There is a recollection shimmering right at the edge. As though it was nudged by that tiny physical discomfort he's just experienced.

As they come outside, the sky is getting cloudy again. One cloud is particularly dark and heavy, as if ready to burst with rain.

A tight knot twists in Charles' gut.

He glances past the line of cars parked nearby, casts his eyes to the cluster of trees surrounding the premises. This hospital is in a nice place, he thinks. Almost in the pocket of silence, away from commotion.

"Erik," he suddenly has to say, overcome by eerie urge, "let's walk."

"Charles, I don't have time for this," he doesn't need to look up to see that Erik is slightly annoyed.

With this, Erik begins walking past the row of cars, because his was parked almost by the exit and Charles can do nothing but follow.

He hears dull click of approaching heels, but because of echo he fails to pinpoint where the sound is coming from.

Blinking, he holds up one hand to protect his eyes from being assaulted by a stray ray of sunlight.

Just that instant there is a bang.

His wide eyes accept the picture in front of him: Erik on the ground, blood spreading over his chest.

Charles stumbles in his haste to reach him, but her words make him freeze half-way.

"Don't move," she cocks the gun, staring him down.

It finally clicks. Too late, though.

Her, being overly familiar, her, playing mother card. At the hotel, and later, when she sought him out on campus.

Impassionate expression looks out of place on her animated face.

"Why shouldn't I?" Charles licks his dry lips, while his hand itches to tighten into a fist. But he can't display any anger, absolutely not. "If you wanted to, you could have killed me long ago."

"I already tried to. A couple of times," she says bluntly. "Time and again you slip out of my reach like an eel."

True. There was something in his drink that time at the dinner party. Did Stryker know? Or did he help Charles on a whim?

Ignoring Marcy, Charles takes a desperate step towards Erik. He can play along a psychopath. He must.

"You know, I like this town less and less," he hums as he crouches beside Erik, close enough now so he can hear his strangled, raspy attempts to breathe in air. Thank god, his eyes are closed — he must have lost consciousness upon impact.

Intent, Charles presses his both hands against the wound, even though he wants to lose it so badly that he hurts.

Keep steady, he tells himself. Don't cry, don't scream.

"It's good to see that I was right," her voice slashes through his chest. "While having deep connections with people is considered a good thing, it's absolutely necessary for you. Without them you're no one. Nothing."

"Let's put nothingness aside, shall we?" Charles offers. Despite his intentions, his words come out rough. "What's the catch? Come on, tell me."

"Death is a release of power, upon which our community prospers and our wishes are granted. Nothing can change that. It's our way of life here. By sacrificing few, many thrive."

"That's it?" Charles doesn't bother to contain a chuckle. "You wrap your fear of death, outdated superstitions and denial in fancy words and that's it? I expected more of you."

Erik's worrisome breathing, still painful to hear is coming with bigger intervals now.

When the shadow falls over them, merging their darkness into one, Charles lifts his head and fixes his gaze on her face.

With spiteful spark in her eyes, she presses her lips in a thin line.

"Do me a favour, Charles. Live long and suffer," and she puts the barrel to her temple before he can react.

A split second later Charles feels something thick and warm splash against the side of his face and neck. Under his hands, Erik stops breathing not a moment too soon.

.

.

.

.


End file.
